Kisses, Real and Imaginary
by LustyBustyPirateWench
Summary: Sandor Clegane takes Sansa Stark from the Vale. Why? Well, it ... seemed the thing to do. This story is rated M for language, violence, and mature content.
1. Chapter 1

Sansa shifted her weight, trying desperately to get comfortable. Her wrists were bound and tied to the pommel in front of her, her thighs pressed too tightly against the front of the saddle. She shook her head, trying to clear it and remember why she was on horseback. It made her head throb and she leaned back against the man behind her, groaning softly.

"You're alright, little bird," growled a familiar voice in her ear, his arms tightening around her protectively. It was the last thing she heard before her eyes slid closed and she slept.

It was nearly an hour later, from what Sandor Clegane could tell, when she stirred again. He brought Stranger up slowly, guiding him into a clearing beside the road. He slid off the horse's back, careful to keep the barely conscious girl safely astride until he could untie her wrists. He pulled her down carefully and set her on a mound of moss, her back braced against a tree, before he squatted down beside her. Blinking and moaning softly, he watched as she took in her surroundings before turning to look at him. Her eyes sprang open and her mouth formed a perfect 'o' as she stared at him.

"You were dead," she murmured.

"Twice now, I'm told," he chuckled. "Not dead, little bird."

Her eyes flitted across his face, his chest, his hands, and back to his face. Whatever fear she had once had of his scarred visage had left her.

It was his turn to be confused and surprised when she said, "Tell me my name."

His brows knit. She had never objected to his nickname before now. "I know your name."

"Tell me."

He exhaled heavily. He hadn't expected this to go smoothly, how could it? But this was not one of the myriad of ways in which he pictured their reunion happening.

"Sansa Stark."

Tears pooled in her eyes and her fingers twitched in her lap. "Again," she whispered.

"You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

"Again!" she pleaded.

His voice grew tender. "Sansa."

She nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks freely. She reached for him then, falling against his chest and wrapping her arms around his neck. Unbalanced by her lunge, he rocked back on his heels for a moment and, feeling him pull away, her grip turned into a vise. He let his weight fall to his knees and slid so it was his back now against the tree, her face pushed against the place over his heart. He wrapped his arms around her tentatively and let her cry against him until she wore herself out with it.

"Do you know me?" he murmured, awkwardly pushing loose strands of hair from her face.

He was uncertain. The girl he'd left the night of the Blackwater would never have clung to him so, never allowed him to comfort her like this. It wouldn't be proper, decent. Had Joffrey really and truly broken her? Had Baelish?

"The Hound," she whispered back, her breath hot against his chest. "Sandor Clegane."

"That's right," he nodded. "Just Clegane now, though. What have they done to you, little bird?"

She pulled away from him, then, and searched his face with her eyes. "You came for me. Why did you come for me?"

He grumbled a bit. "It seemed the thing to do."

"Did it?" she asked, frowning. "No one else came. How did you know where I was?"

"A long story for another time," he told her, using the edge of his sleeve to wipe the tears from her cheeks. "Was it right? That I came for you? I'm no pretty knight …"

She shook her head. "It was right. It was good."

Inordinately pleased, he grinned at her and squeezed her shoulders gently. " 'Good'. Not something I'm used to being called."

She nodded absently but he took no offense. "Where … where are we?"

"The woods."

She gave him an annoyed look. "I know that."

"That's all you need to know. Have to put distance between us and the Eyrie. Can you ride or do I need to tie you to the saddle again?"

Sighing, she held her wrists out to him. "My head feels foggy."

He had the good grace to look abashed as he muttered, "Sorry about that. I put sweet sleep in your tea."

"Why?"

He shrugged and began to bind her wrists. "Didn't know as you'd go with me if I asked."

"I would have."

Their eyes met then, his wary and suspicious, hers tired but sincere.

He stood, pulling her with him, and put her back on the horse, excusing himself for just long enough to relieve himself against a tree some ways away. And then they were off, hooves pounding the dirt trails, trees flying by on either side.


	2. Chapter 2

It seemed like days before they stopped again, Sansa long ago having falling asleep against Sandor's chest. When she woke, they were inside a tiny wooden cabin, so small it might have served as a single bedchamber at Winterfell. She had been lain upon the bed and covered in a man's cloak. Sandor was digging through a saddlebag in the far corner of the cabin. Although she couldn't see Stranger, she could hear him eating grass on the other side of the wall from her head. The cabin was dreadfully cold and hardly seemed any shelter at all. Pulling the cloak tightly around her, she sat up in bed and watched as Sandor fished out two parcels wrapped in rough fabric and a waterskin. He nodded when he saw she was awake and dragged the only chair in the room over to the bedside. It creaked and groaned when he put his weight on it, but held him. The two parcels turned out to be a small loaf of bread and chunks of cheese and dried meat. He split up the meal between them and began to eat, ripping the bread with his teeth and growling in pleasure.

She picked at her food, but ate all he gave her, seeming to savor it. He watched her carefully. Although she was still timid in her movements, she didn't seem frightened.

"Aren't you scared?" he growled, taking a swig from the waterskin before thrusting it at her.

"Of what?" she asked, daintily pressing her lips to the mouth of the skin for a drink.

"Anything. Death. Capture," he glared at her for a moment before continuing, "Me."

She shrugged and handed the skin back to him.

"Why the fucking hell not?" he roared. "Gods, girl, what did they do to you? How bad was Littlefinger that you would have voluntarily gone with me? The last time I saw you, girl, I had a knife at your throat. I threatened … I shoved you down on the godsdamned bed and climbed on top of you. I might have killed you! And now you follow me in faith? What in the fucking hell happened to you?"

He railed and screamed but she never looked away. When he finished, she said calmly, "Is that an apology?"

She couldn't have shocked him more if she'd struck him. "No!" he spat, "That was NOT an apology."

"You DID scare me then," she told him. "But I knew you wouldn't hurt me."

"You were a fool, I very nearly hurt you in many ways."

She sighed. "You didn't. You threatened me with death, with injury, threatened to force yourself on me. But you never hurt me."

He stood then, and paced the room. Finally, he returned to his seat. "I'm sorry. THAT'S an apology. And I am. I'm sorry I scared you. I wouldn't have come with me either, that night."

"Are you sorry for everything that happened that night?" she whispered, her eyes dropping down to her lap for the first time. "Are you sorry for kissing me?"

"What?" he grunted incredulously. "Kiss? I never kissed you."

She nodded. "You did."

"NO, I bleeding well DIDN'T."

Her eyes came back to his then and she gave him a disbelieving look. "No. You listen to me. I never forced myself on you in any way. That is the truth and it is very important."

For a moment, she looked confused. "Didn't you? I remember. I sang a song and I touched your cheek and you kissed me."

He shook his head. "Never happened."

"I did sing?"

"Yes, little bird, you sang. I was close enough to feel it in my own throat. But I did not kiss you."

They sat in silence for a moment, neither willing to look at the other. Her cheeks were flushed in embarrassment. Didn't he? She poked and prodded at the memory, willing it to crumble or prove true, but it remained as she remembered. Gods, I dreamt it. No, I fantasized it. I willed it. This is worse than when he walked in during my first moon blood.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why I thought … well …"

He considered ignoring it and trying to change the subject, but her discomfort intrigued him. Why wasn't she relieved that he hadn't kissed her? Why didn't she latch on to his denial?

"Did you," he paused to take a breath, his voice deep and gravelly even to his own ears. "Did you like me kissing you?"

Her blush had spread from her cheeks down her neck and across her chest. She ducked her head and tried not to cry in shame. "You did. You dreamed up a kiss from a man so drunk he could barely stand, who had fallen asleep in your bed covered in blood, who threatened to do terrible things to you. And you liked it."

"Yes," she admitted.

He watched her for a moment more, her embarrassment palpable in the cold night air. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you like that?" he prodded, grabbing her arm gently when she refused to answer. "You didn't just like it, did you, little bird? You cherished it. Why?!"

She shook her head and pulled back, but he held her tightly. "Answer me, girl. What, was I your Florian? A hideous fool so enamored with a beautiful maid he settled for a kiss? Was that it? Did you think yourself charitable that you allowed a kiss? Answer me!"

He had dragged her toward him on the bed, holding both of her arms now, shaking her gently. A demand for an answer was on his lips again when she finally wailed, "Because you were the only one!"

"The only one what?"

"The only one who cared," she sobbed. "The only one who protected me. The only one who wouldn't hurt me."

"Fucking hell. The only one who wouldn't hurt you, I guess that's true enough, but I had JUST threatened to kill you."

"But you didn't, you didn't. And you tried to take me away, tried to save me. If I'd gone with you, maybe all the rest wouldn't have happened. And then you were gone."

She was crying again, tears streaming down her face. He was ashamed all over again. Ashamed that he'd come to her that night, ashamed that he hadn't MADE her come with him, and ashamed that he had her now, clutched in his hands and crying.

He loosened his grip on her arms and pulled her gently to him, holding her in his arms as he had longed to do every day in the Red Keep. "I'm sorry," she whispered against his chest. "I'm sorry. I know, I know I'm just a stupid little bird."

He pushed her away from him then, and her face fell. But without a word, he lifted her chin up as he once had, to make her look at him. Instead of having to will herself not to avert her eyes, not to notice his scars, she stared directly into his gaze now, pleading with him.

"Please don't leave me," she whispered. "Please don't make me go."

He shook his head and carefully, slowly, gently, leaned to her and kissed her. He didn't deepen his kiss, just pressed his lips against hers for a few moments and then pulled away.

She had closed her eyes while he kissed her and fresh tears ran down her cheeks. "NOW," he whispered, "now I have kissed you."

Her lips were barely swollen from his kiss, but against her pale skin, they looked sensual and desperate. She pressed them together once more and opened her eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he grunted. "Do you think you could sleep now?"

She nodded and he shifted her weight back to the bed, covering her with his cloak once again, careful not to actually touch her body. "Sleep, little bird, for a few hours more. And then we'll ride."

When he reached for the door handle, she murmured, "Please don't leave me."

"Just going to check on the horse and make sure we're not followed, girl. I won't be far. I'll come back."

She smiled trustingly, if wearily, and yawned. "Not a ser. Not a lord. What shall I call you now?" she asked, blinking sleepily.

"Whatever you like," he shrugged. "Anything but Hound. I've left him behind."

She whispered, "Goodnight Sandor Clegane. Thank you for coming for me," curled up on the bed, and was asleep before he could cross the threshold. He threw a glance to Stranger, who was dozing at the far side of the small clearing, and walked a few feet into the trees. She called me Sandor, he remembered, his heart beating quickly. Well, what else would she call you? That's your name, dumbass.

His anger hadn't retreated, but his pity for the girl was quickly wearing it down. And then, of course, when he realized that she hadn't cast him as a knight in yet another tale in her head, but had actually fantasized a kiss from HIM, desire took the forefront. He had kissed her to make up for not having kissed her before, which confused the hell out of him, since not having forced her to anything was one of the few conciliations he'd had this past year and a half. When he'd calmed down, he returned to the cabin and slept on the floor with his back pressed against the door and his eyes on Sansa, fast asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

They rode hard for a few more days, speaking only when they stopped to let Stranger rest. She told him of her what had happened since he left King's Landing: the battle's outcome, the introduction of Margaery Tyrell to court, her own marriage to Tyrion Lannister, and Joffrey's death. She told him of Ser Dontos' death and Littlefinger's scheming. When she told him how her aunt truly died, she felt a great weight lifted from her chest at being able to acknowledge the truth. She told him of Sweetrobin's clutching, cloying behavior and his shaking fits, of Littlefinger's unwanted attentions and plans to marry her off. With each new story, his anger boiled up higher and higher. _These fucking nobles, _he growled internally_, not a care in the world for the natural order of things, the proper way to live._

She asked if he was upset at all by Joffrey's death. "You knew him since he was very little, didn't you?"

"Aye, I knew him. When he was young, Tommen's age or so, he was still sweet. Well, most of the time. Wouldn't do to trust him around babies or helpless animals. He grew up into a right little shit. That's what brotherfucking will do, muddies the waters. I stopped trying about the time you met him. He was too far gone to be helped. Used to torment that Arryn boy, wanted to see him have the fits. Fucking Lannisters."

"Lord Tyrion was pleasant to me," she admitted, "though I did not want to be his wife."

He growled at that. "My list of reasons to kill the fucking Imp was long enough before this. If I ever get me hands on him, I'll rip his head off."

She shrugged. "He was kind to me, in his way."

"Marrying you against your will is kind?" he spat.

"I don't think he was given a choice either. Besides, he … well, on the night of our wedding …"

Before she could finish, Sandor roared in anger and threw a rock that had been lying near his fist into the trees. "Stop! Oh yes, poor little martyr. You know how many great ladies refused to take him as husband? All the wealth of Casterly Rock couldn't win him a wife. I'm sure he was terribly upset to have a beautiful young girl handed to him like a fucking nameday gift. I can't hear about what that twisted little whoremonger did to you. You'll be lucky if you didn't end up with a pox. "

"He didn't," she whispered, embarrassed.

"What?" he spat, brought up short. "He didn't what?"

"He didn't take me to bed."

He waved her away. "Just 'cause I don't want to know how that little fucker defiled you means you have to lie."

"No, really. I mean, he almost did. He took off his clothes and told me to do the same, but once we were naked, he just looked at me. He told me he desired me but that he wouldn't force himself on me and that we'd wait until I wanted him in return."

"Horseshit."

"No, really."

"That pile of crap has bedded more whores than I can count. You're telling me he didn't take his rights from a wife?"

"Yes."

He grunted then, staring at the dying embers of their fire. "Well, maybe I won't rip his head off. Maybe I'll just beat him bloody. And Baelish? All those months he had you spirited away up in the mountains?"

"He …took liberties that he oughtn't have. No father would kiss his daughter as he kissed me. But he was too careful to risk his plans," she took a deep breath, her face burning. "I'm still a maiden."

Sansa, still embarrassed at being forced to talk of her maidenhood, squirmed down into her bedroll and watched the embers as Sandor was doing. There had been no more kisses since their first, and no mention of it either. She didn't know if she was relieved or remorseful about it. As horrified as she was to have him discover she had apparently imagined him kissing her, to feel his lips pressed against hers made her heart race and her insides tremble. He would never be a handsome man, but he was tall and broad-shouldered and strong. And, in his own way, he cared for her.

This was the first night he hadn't been able to find shelter for them while they slept and he watched her as she started to doze off. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was almost even, but she shivered so hard, he thought at first she might be having a fit. He stood and walked to the other side of the fire, kneeling beside her and touching her lightly on the shoulder.

"Cold?"

"Yes," she whispered.

He nodded and steeled himself, then lay down behind her, throwing his heavy cloak over both of them. She tensed for a moment but eased when he made no move to touch her or move closer. This became their routine for a well a sennight. They rode hard during the day, ate whatever he was able to snare or hunt around the fire, and then lay down together to share their warmth. There was never less than a foot between them and if Sansa had still been the girl she was when they met, he was sure she would have asked him to lay his sword between them like a knight in a story. But she accepted the new arrangement with not a word said. Every morning, he woke to find their bodies pressed together. Typically, her pert ass was pressed against the cradle of hips, her back against his chest. Rarely, he'd wake on his back with her head resting on his chest. Whichever the case, he woke hard and wanting. But every morning he'd slide away from her quietly and retreat to the woods to take himself in hand or simply wait for it to go down on its own. He was desperate to see what she would do if she woke first one morning, whether she'd shy away or squirm against him, but he didn't dare.

So far their flight was uncomfortable to be sure, but companionable nonetheless. After a week together, they started to acclimate to each others' moods and habits. There were times when he was still rude and gruff, and hurt her feelings. But those times were rare and were met with the frigid good manners she had learned to wield so well.

She didn't ask again where they were going, which was good, since he wasn't sure. He only knew he was heading north. Her brother's army was disbanded but it was certainly more likely that they'd find friendly arms and hearths in the north than in the south. When she'd run out of stories to tell him about King's Landing and the Eyrie, he told her how he'd found her: "By the gods, I guess it was a woman. She was nearly as tall as me, though. Said she was looking for you for your mother. Thought you might be this bastard Alayne she'd heard of. Anyway, I left the brothers and followed her. She got waylaid at some inn but I pressed on. Got to you first. Don't know what happened to her, but haven't seen her since. Walked right through the Moon Gate's doors dressed in the robe the Elder Brother gave me. No one thought to look too close at a penitent what only wanted shelter in the stables. You were easy enough to find but I watched you for a couple days, made sure I knew your routine before I tried the tea. The rest you know."

In truth, his plan had been rather more intensive and carefully wrought. He watched her for four days, noted when she went to bed, where the others in the castle might be, took pains to notice which personal items she used so he could pack them up with her when he took her. And then there was the abduction itself. It was no mean feat to carry an unconscious teenager through a busy castle without arising suspicion, but somehow he managed it.

It had been almost a fortnight since he spirited her away from Baelish before they saw anyone else on the roads. They had been careful to avoid being seen for as long as possible but it was inevitable eventually. Instead of slinking back into the forest or charging, as Sansa expected Sandor to do, he pulled his hood tighter around his face and trotted up to the old man leading a herd of four goats up the road.

"Good morrow," called the old man, his tone friendly but his eyes wary.

"Good morrow," Sandor replied gruffly. "Can you point me the way to Flint's Finger?"

The old man nodded and stopped to rein in his charges for a moment. Holding up his hand, he made a map against his palm. "We're here, King's Road is a league east or so. You follow this way long enough, they'll cross up here, in a few leagues. The Finger is due West from the crossroads, maybe a week's ride."

Sandor nodded and dug in a pocket for a copper, which he tossed to the old man. "My thanks, grandfather."

The old man smiled and waved them off. Sansa had forgotten how to breathe when she saw a fellow traveler and it wasn't until Sandor's arms were circled tight around her again that she shakily let out the breath she was holding.

"Alright there, little bird?"

"Yes. I was frightened."

Sandor snorted. "Of an old man?"

She shook her head and turned to look at him. "Of who he might tell that he saw us."

Keeping the reins in one hand, he moved one of his others to squeeze hers where they perched on the saddle horn. "So long as I have breath, you will not be taken," he assured her.

She turned her hand over to hold onto this for a moment, bringing it up to rub on her cheek. "I trust you. I've just lived in fear for too long."

Without thinking, he bent down then and pressed his lips to the top of her head. He straightened back up, afraid he'd gone too far, afraid he'd broken the gentle balance they'd established between them. But she just sighed and squeezed his hand in hers before letting it go.

"Why are going to Flint's Finger?" she asked some time later.

"We're not. Just wanted to get an idea of where we were."

"Oh," she said thoughtfully. "That was clever!"

He grunted happily. "Do you have an idea of where we should go?" she asked, tracing on her own palm the map the traveler had drawn on his.

"Moat Cailin, at least for the moment. It's defensible, it's secluded, and it's abandoned."

She hummed in approval and ran her fingers through Stranger's mane, gently untangling the knots she could reach. He tried not to watch the play of her fingers in the horse's rough hair, it would only lead to impure thoughts, which would lead to even more uncomfortable riding.

That night, Sansa went to relief herself before bed. Sandor slid down to his bedroll and lay on his back, closing his eyes, knowing the girl would only be a moment. It surprised him when, instead of lying on her bedroll that he'd placed a foot away from his own, he heard a rough scrape as she dragged it next to his and curled up against him, her head on his chest. He'd been dozing when she lay down and he muttered, "Little bird?" as she lay a hand on his chest.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, "it's just that it's so cold. Is this alright? Do you want me to move?"

He grunted in response, glad he wasn't awake enough to be nervous or aroused enough to read anything into her actions. He just wrapped his arms around her, hoisting her further up his chest, and then threw his extra blanket across both of them.

The next morning, Sandor drifted in and out of the best night's sleep he'd had in years, the minimal weight of his little bird a welcome addition. It wasn't until she whimpered and cried out that he woke. "Sandor? Sandor, I can't see," she wailed quietly, one hand going to her eyes and the other to his chest. "My eyes, what's wrong with my eyes?"

He pushed himself upright, tilting her head to see. The panic that welled up in him before he could clear his own eyes of sand was palpable. Finally, he pushed her hand away from her face and saw clearly that her skin was a very light shade of blue, her lips chapped and her eyes, gods be good, her eyes were frozen shut.

"You're alright, little bird," he assured her. "Your eyelashes are frozen together. No, don't pull them, you'll rip them out."

He considered her for a moment and then did the only thing he could think of. He licked his lips and pressed a kiss to her right eyelid. He moved back to breathe heavily, and kissed her again. When he felt the ice melting beneath his lips, he moved to the other eye and repeated his attentions. When the ice was melted enough, he ran his thumb across her eyes, clearing the water before it could refreeze.

"Better?" he asked.

She opened her eyes slowly and smiled. If he hadn't already been completely, desperately in love with the girl, he would have been then. Her eyes sparkled in the early morning light, full of relief and … something else. He smiled back at her, the feeling of his scars pulling tightly the only thing stopping him from grinning like an idiot. Her chest heaved and he tried not to let his eyes drift down to the swells of her breasts. So focused was he on resisting the powerful temptation, it took him a moment to realize her hand was pressing the back of his head as she stretched upwards to kiss him. She was kissing him. It was a gentle, serene kiss, but still, after a few moments when she hadn't broken contact, he pulled her tighter against him and cradled her head in one of his hands. She moaned almost imperceptibly and moved her head for a better angle. Encouraged, he nibbled gently on her lower lip and when she gasped, he ran his tongue along the underside of her upper lip. Tentatively, she let her tongue slide forward to meet his, deepening the kiss. They both moaned at that and Sansa wrapped her other arm around his shoulders. He didn't know how long they sat there, kissing back and forth, taking and giving over control again and again, but when she pulled him tighter against her and pressed her breasts to him, that was the moment it became something more. Before that moment, he could chalk the kiss up to relief at being able to see, thanking him for his help, or even just a young girl exploring for the first time. But he was no green boy, not anymore, and when he felt her breasts press against him, it was all he could do to not slide her to the ground and swing his leg over. Instead, he very carefully moved his hands to her waist, letting her have control. A minute or an eternity later, Sansa whimpered and ground her legs together and he broke apart from her then, holding her at arm's length while they both regained their breath.

After a moment, Sansa opened her eyes again. Her face and neck were flushed and her breathing was still heavy enough to make her breasts heave. "I'm sorry, Sandor, I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry, little bird?" he asked, leering at her.

"Well, it's not proper. I know, I know. What does propriety matter now? I was so scared for a moment and then my eyes were warmer and I realized you were kissing them open. Don't laugh at me, but it's just, it was the most romantic, wonderful thing I've ever heard of."

He laughed then, but it was good-natured. "Didn't think about it, truth be told. Just seemed the thing to do."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, finally beginning to breathe normally.

"Don't have to apologize. Now that you say it, I guess it was something that some pretty boy knight might have done. And you don't ever have to apologize for kissing me. I shouldn't have pressed you when you meant to give me an innocent kiss."

"What part was not innocent?" she asked, wide-eyed.

He brushed stray hairs from her face and chuckled. "Your septa would have said even a peck was indecent, little bird. I think me sticking my tongue in your mouth would have been enough to warrant me getting sent before a septon."

"I liked that part," she said quietly, shrugging.

"Oh you better fucking believe that I did too, little bird."

She tilted her head to one side. "Then why did we stop?"

He groaned inwardly. Was she really going to make him spell this out? For gods' sake, she was what, ten and six? Surely she'd gotten the lessons by now.

"We stopped because kissing is very nice, but it leads to other things."

She nodded but looked unconvinced.

Did she not understand? "Look here, little bird, I already told you, I liked kissing you very much. Do you know what happens to a man when a beautiful girl is treating him as nice as that?"

She nodded again. "Tell me," he said.

"He gets aroused," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. "Theon Greyjoy liked to make me blush by telling me about his bedsport."

"True enough. And while I can ignore my own arousal," he paused, thinking to himself _Gods, at least I hope I can_, "when I see you getting riled up with your own, it's hard to resist pushing the advantage. You understand?"

She blinked at him in wonder, her mouth dropping open to an amazed little 'o'. "Didn't frighten you did I?" he asked, his brows knitting in concern.

"You were aroused because of me?" she asked, so softly he almost couldn't hear her.

He laughed for true then, weeks of desperately trying to hide erections and working hard not to stare at her every minute, not to kiss her and stroke her and pull her from the horse to fuck her a thousand times over making him giddy. She tried to yank free then, but he held her tightly, his laughter only subsiding when he realized she was about to cry.

"Oh little bird," he soothed. "Oh girl, you have no idea."

Sansa was horrified when he started laughing. She thought she understood what he meant but when she asked to make sure that it was her he found arousing and he laughed, she was horrified. That wasn't what he'd meant and now he thought her a foolish little bird, just like he'd said at King's Landing all those times. She tried to pull free, to run away from his laughter, but he was too strong for her.

When he told her that she had no idea, she was confused again. She frowned at him and twisted trying to get away.

"Stop it," he told her, not unkindly. "I wasn't laughing at you, I swear it."

"Then why?" she whispered. "I don't understand."

"You know what arousal is, don't you?"

She avoided his gaze again but didn't try to pull away from him. "Yes. Of course I know. On my wedding night, Lord Tyrion was naked and he was aroused."

"Well?" he asked.

She was blushing again, letting her hair fall forward to make a wall she could hide behind. "Well, he … his manhood … it was standing out."

"And?"

She shrugged. "Do you know what would have happened if the Imp had forced his rights?"

"Yes," her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her, "he would have put it inside of me to break my maidenhead. He would have taken his pleasure."

He grunted. "Aye, that would have been about the way of it. And it's hardly surprising the little bastard got hard looking at you in only your skin. It pains me when you're fully dressed. I'm just surprised he let you go."

"Pains you?" she asked.

At first, he thought she was understanding even less than he thought, or that she was fishing for him to admit his feelings. It struck him then that she really, simply, did not understand the power she had over men.

He loosened the grip he had on her wrists and started rubbing the insides with this thumbs. She relaxed some, settling back off her knees and sat down fully.

"You're a beautiful girl. Well, a woman, now. Don't you know that?"

She shrugged again.

"Look at me," he commanded. Slowly, she slid her eyes up to meet his. "Little bird, you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. You were a pretty little thing when I first saw you and every day, you grow more and more beautiful. I wish I had more words to tell you this. Better words, prettier words. But I'm a nasty brute and these words are all know. You understand? Your hair is the only fire I've ever wanted to push my face in. Your teats are big and firm and when we were kissing, I could feel your hard little nipples rubbing against me. Your lips are full and pretty and I imagine how they'd look wrapped around my cock. Riding with you rubbing against me every day is the sweetest torture I think I could imagine. This is what men think when they look at you. This is why Baelish spirited you away, why the Imp wanted you. I wish I could tell you they loved you, loved your laugh and your smile and your innocence, that they only wanted to hear you tell them stories of brave knights, but it's not true. Men are beasts, Sansa. Yes, you arouse me every day. And yes, it pains me, because one day I'll have to watch as you fall in love with another handsome fucking lord, listen to him bed you on your wedding night. I'll never feel your cunny, never taste your tits, never watch you grow big with my seed. Wanting without hope of ever having. Can't you feel how hard you make me every single day?"

Her mouth was hanging open now, her eyes as big as saucers. He worried that he'd scared her, but her eyes were dark, her breath short, and her fingers had begun to absently caress him in return.

"I'm sorry I don't know how to tell you that with sweet words," he grumbled. "And it doesn't mean that just because I want those things I would ever take them, you understand that? I will never force you, I will never let another man force you. Do you understand?"

She nodded slowly. "But you said, it was hard to resist when I …"

He drew in a deep breath through his nose and let it out through his mouth. "Hard to resist. Not impossible. And look here, I'm not saying that you shouldn't be aroused. Just that when a man sees that he's having an effect like that on a woman, it makes him all the more desperate."

Sansa took a deep breath too, biting her lip. "So … women get aroused, too? Randa told me that some women like being with men, but she never told me … I don't really …"

"Never touched yourself?" he asked incredulously.

She frowned at him and glanced down at her body. "Touched your cunny," he clarified, "played with your tits?"

Blushing fiercely again, she shook her head. He sighed and tried to smile at her reassuringly. "When we were kissing, just at the end, you squeezed your legs together."

"Yes," she admitted. "I ached."

He groaned and let his head fall back against the tree behind him. "Oh little bird," he moaned.

She squirmed again and he released his grip so she could escape if she wanted to, but she just shifted her weight and scooted towards him an inch. "Tell me, please. I know I'm just a stupid girl, but I can't know until someone tells me."

"Men's arousal," he began, "makes their manhoods hard. Women's makes them wet, so the men can enter them easier. And it makes them ache."

When she didn't respond, he opened his eyes again to find her staring at his breeches where an indecent tent still stood. Seeing her staring so fixedly made him twitch and she gasped.

"It's alright," he murmured, wondering if he was lying to her or himself.

"It hurts?" she asked, her eyes not leaving his breeches.

"Aches."

She nodded sagely and squeezed her legs together again. He released one of her wrists and ran his free hand through her hair, then trailed his fingers along her jaw line, tracing her lips with this thumb. She blushed even darker, remembering what he said he'd like to see her mouth doing.

He groaned when she squirmed again and she whimpered a little. "Sandor, I don't know what to do," she whispered. "What do we do?"

She might very well have been asking whether they should get on the road. He chose to believe she meant she wasn't sure how to ease the ache between her legs. The problem was, he wasn't sure what they should do either. He knew what he WANTED to do, but that out of the question. She has a point. How can she know what to expect if no one tells her? So carefully, slowly, he pulled her up until she was sitting sidesaddle in his lap, his hardness pressed alongside her thigh. She stared down at it, curiosity and nerves making her tremble a little. He tilted her chin up as he had before and pressed his lips back to hers. She was still for a moment, but soon she gave herself into the kiss, allowing his tongue into her mouth and pushing her own into his. He rubbed his hands down her back soothingly until he was sure she was comfortable. Slowly, he began moving one hand closer to her breasts until he wrapped his big hand around her. She gasped and pressed into him. "You tell me," he grunted between kisses, "you tell me if you want me to stop. Promise."

"Promise," she moaned, carefully rubbing her hand down the scarred side of his face. His hand caressed her, feeling the weight of her breast before rubbing her nipple through the fabric of her dress, teasing it, twisting it gently. "Is this alright?" he asked. "Does it feel good?"

She whimpered in response but managed to nod and hitched herself a hair closer to him. He moved to her other breast to give it the same treatment, sliding his lips down the side of her neck while he did so, kissing and nibbling down the tendon and to her collarbone. With every passing moment she was getting more and more riled up. "Sandor," she moaned as massaged both breasts.

"Want me to stop?" he asked, sliding his hands down her waist, rubbing, soothing. "No!" she cried.

"You want more?" he asked breathlessly. "Yes, please! Please, Sandor, please!" she was almost sobbing now, clutching at him desperately.

Slowly, so slowly, he let one hand fall to her ankle and began to slide back up, dragging just the tips of his fingers along the naked flesh of her leg. When he got to her thigh, she unconsciously spread her legs a few inches. It wasn't much and she certainly didn't realize she'd done it, but he noticed. He teased her a while longer, drawing shapes with his fingertips against the inside of her thighs before finally pressing gently against her mound, covered still by her smallclothes.

She gasped and her chest heaved. "Breathe, little bird. It's alright, I've got you." She nodded but whimpered again.

When her smallclothes were completely soaked, he took his moist fingers and rubbed her thigh again, whispering into her ear. "You see? That's your arousal. You're so wet, girl."

"Please," she whispered again, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

He kissed her again and slid his fingers underneath the sodden fabric. At first, he just caressed her mound, wondering as he rubbed what color the hair was. When he thought she could bear no more teasing, he let one finger slide into her and found her nub. She jumped like she'd been whipped, moaning and clutching her thighs tightly around his hand. He continued slowly rubbing around the little bundle, letting her get used to the sensation before he made it more intense. It took hardly any time for her to peak, her head flew back and she arched her back, moaning wantonly as she clutched at him with her hands and her cunt. He ghosted his touches over her until she settled and then began again, throwing her immediately into another climax and then a third. After that, she began to whimper and he pulled his hand back, soothingly patting her mound before removing it completely. She lay draped across him now, panting shallowly and trembling.

"Sandor," she murmured.

He kissed her forehead and let her slide to the snow covered grass beside him. He couldn't tell if she was actually asleep or just in a daze. Her eyes were closed but she still moaned and twitched a little. Although part of him wanted to wake her up and ask for fair return, he didn't dare. He was too close now, anyway. So he unlaced his breeches with one hand and with the one that had stroked her to completion, he slicked himself up. He pulled and twisted a few times then glanced over at Sansa's prone form to find her eyes open and watching him in a fascinated daze. That was enough for him and he stroked once, twice, three times and came harder than he ever had in his life. She never broke eye contact with him as he climaxed until his cock gave one final spurt and his breathing began to even out. She glanced down, then, and her eyes widened at the sight of his cock, covered in come. It was starting to soften but he imagined it had to be bigger than the Imp's. He gave one final, languid stroke and she moaned, then closed her eyes, and fell back asleep with a contented smile on her face.

It was a good while before he could bring himself to move, even in the bitter cold. _Did that just happen? What the hell was I thinking?_ _Crossed a fucking line and no mistake. She had been willing, sure enough, but innocent._ He wet the edge of his cloak with snow and held it between his hands until it warmed, then cleaned himself up. Sansa still slept near him and he decided to allow her another hour before they absolutely had to get moving. When the time came, he shook her gently and she opened her eyes as she had every other morning, but it was different now, he knew it and he saw it reflected in her eyes.

"Get your things together, we're leaving after you eat," he told her gruffly. She smiled at him shyly, a sentiment he ignored as we went to saddle Stranger. She finished packing up their bedding and ate her meager breakfast and relieved herself before moving to join him at the horse's side. Without so much as a glance, he lifted her and set her in her place and swung up behind her.


	4. Chapter 4

It was not unusual for them to ride in silence, since it was difficult to hear over the horse and the wind. But where it was normally a companionable, friendly quiet, now it was harsh and awkward. When they slowed to a walk at midday to give Stranger a rest, Sansa turned in the saddle and tried to look up at her companion. He kept his eyes on the road ahead of them, ignoring her.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked eventually.

"No."

"It seems like you are."

He snorted.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

She scowled up at him and sniffed. "You told me once that you would never lie to me."

"Quit your chirping."

Without responding, she lifted her right leg and swung it carefully over the horse's neck and slid to the ground with a light thump. "HEY!" he yelped, swiping to catch ahold of her.

She didn't run, but she didn't let him catch her either, staying just out of his arm's reach. "I can keep up at this pace," she told him icily.

His arm passed over her head as he grabbed for her again. "Get over here NOW," he growled.

"No," she echoed.

"If I have to get down off this horse to get you back up on it, you're not gonna like that," he warned her.

She shrugged and skirted another grab. "I haven't liked most of my life lately."

He cursed and made a last attempt to swoop her up. "What makes you think I won't just leave you by the side of the road? Ride off and be free of the princess of Winterfell, probably has a price on her head. Leave you to the bandits and the Lions and even the Wolves?"

"I don't think you would do that," she replied, her tone cold but assured. "And I'm not a princess anymore. If I ever was."

He considered riding off, then. Not far, maybe only far enough up the road to make her cry out for him. But looking down at her stony expression, he doubted she might call him back. So instead, he swung down and stomped after her on foot. He was a fast man but the injury to his thigh slowed him some. "Come HERE," he growled again. She evaded him and slid to the other side of the horse.

"What is your damn problem?"

Many cruel answers came to mind then, but Sansa tamped them down. She would not lash out in her anger as he did. "Well?" he demanded as she continued to ignore him.

She raised her chin and walked on.

After many long minutes, she began to outpace him, keeping up with the destrier instead. He allowed it, biding his time. When she looked up to watch a bird alight in a tree overhead, he lunged and caught her arm. "Ow!" she yelped, pulling to free herself.

He tapped Stranger to stop him and grabbed the girl around the waist to hoist her up. She shrieked and struggled and slid back to the ground, but he caught his fingers in the lacings of her bodice and pulled her toward him. "What?!" he yelled down at her. "What is wrong with you? You were fine one moment and the next your claws are out."

"You lied to me," she squeaked, still fighting to get free.

"When?"

"You're angry with me!" she spat. "Say it!"

"Well I am NOW!" he roared. "Stop squirming!"

She pulled away again, twisting in his arms, and gave a cry of frustration. Grunting with the effort of keeping her against him, he moved off the road and pushed her against a wide tree trunk, holding her upper arms against the rough bark. Stranger followed lazily, watching the argument with a bored air.

Tears streamed down her face but she never stopped pulling to get away from him. Eventually she realized she was trapped and sobbed, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. "I'm sorry, then," she ground out.

"You should be. Girl your age throwing a hissy fit."

She glared at him incredulously. "Not for that!"

"Well then what the hell FOR?" he growled.

He got no answer. She only closed her eyes and pressed her head back against the tree, away from him.

"Talk, damn you!" he shook her. "Do you even know what you're apologizing for? Or are you just spitting out your sorries like your septa told you to?"

"Yes!"

"Yes WHAT?"

"Yes, I'm spitting out my sorries. That's what I was trained to do when I have done someone a wrong. I was trained to bow and scrape and say the pretty words they taught me."

He shook her again, harder this time, though not hard enough to hurt her. "Haven't you grown out of that? Haven't you seen what all those lessons get you?"

"They've kept me alive!" she growled back at him.

There was nothing he could say to that. He simply glared at her.

She was angrier than she'd ever been, so angry it burned away all the fear. What was wrong with him? "So I'm sorry, for whatever wrong I've done you. From the moment you woke me this morning, you have been snarling or silent, glared at me, and you then you lied! Tell me what I've done and I will atone."

They stood there for long minutes, staring at each other. Finally, Sandor leaned in closer to her, only a hair away. "Did you hear a fucking word I said this morning?"

"I did," she whispered, her breath making his hair sway between them.

"I shouldn't have touched you," he growled softly. "You're meant for a great lord. You were set to marry the fucking prince once, if you remember. But you let me … And you ask why I'm angry with you?"

She shook her head in confusion. "Yes, I let you. I asked it of you. Is that why you're angry? You regret it? You said you … desired me."

"Fuck, girl. Of course I do. That doesn't mean I should take you."

"You already have."

He blinked at her. "I told you, I never kissed you that night. I might have been drunk and scared shitless, but I know that for true. And believe me, I would remember if I'd fucked you."

"You took me," she continued, "from the Vale. You put sweetsleep in my tea and you carried me through the halls and ran."

"All those stories of 'true knights' and you don't see that for a rescue?" he sneered.

"Time and time again you say you're not a knight," she reminded him. "A knight might have made a gallant rescue. But what is it when the Hound is the one who steals a girl in the night?"

"It's still a rescue."

"Why? My family is dead. The Lannisters wish me dead. I have no money, no lands. Why did you come for me?"

"Because I bloody well thought you needed rescuing."

"I have needed rescuing for years! Isn't it a little too late now? I used to be valuable. Now I'm just a brood mare in a woman's body," she spat.

"You're a fucking lady, not a horse!" he gripped her tightly again.

She winced but didn't ask him to stop. "Am I? I thought I was a traitor's daughter, the rebel king's sister. My castle lies in ruins, my people scattered and dead. Petyr intended to reveal me when I married, thought the Vale would raise an army to take back Winterfell. But Winterfell truly belongs to the Lannisters unless they've dissolved my marriage to Tyrion, and they'll take it when they decide they want it. I have no home, no army. My brothers are dead! My sister is dead! My parents are dead! I have nothing! I have no one! But I thought, stupid little bird, that I had YOU!"

She was wailing now, her words sharp and her voice sore. "I thought you would protect me, would keep me. I didn't ask where were going because it didn't matter! You were the last person in the world that cared. And if I was wrong, Sandor Clegane, if you just wanted to .. to … FUCK me, then DO it. You've earned a reward, haven't you? But do it and let me go. I'll fly away and you won't have to worry about the stupid little girl any more. Or sell me back to the Lannisters. They'll forgive you and put my head on a spike next to my father's. What does it matter now?"

He let go of her arms and she turned to run but she couldn't see through her tears and she only made it two strides before he had her again, gently this time. He picked her up in his arms, cradling her head to his neck. Whistling for Stranger to follow him, he picked his way through the woods until he found a shady, sheltered clearing. The snow was nearly gone but he took care to set her down on a patch of dry grass. He knelt before her, letting her fall exhausted against him for a moment before straightening her and holding her tear-streaked face in his hands.

"You DO have me, you daft little bird. And don't you ever think otherwise."

She shook her head, refusing to look at him. "I'm so tired," she whispered.

"Well, we'll rest here for a while. But you're no ruined woman. We'll find someone to give you sanctuary and they'll find a good man for you and he'll protect you," he ground out. "And you'll always have your vicious dog at the door if you need him."

"So tired," she repeated. "So tired of being used. So tired of being afraid. I just want to be loved again."

"Well, you'll find someone who …"

She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. "NO! Just let me go," she begged. "If you're going to sell me, please just let me go. Or kill me, just send my head to the queen. Just let me go."

He slapped her then. It wasn't a hard strike, more like what you'd do to a child's hand who was reaching for a candle. "You listen to me," he growled, "I am not fucking selling you to anyone, least of all that fucking blonde cunt. And don't you ever fucking think about running away from me again like you did today."

The slap had pulled her out of her misery. She cradled the cheek he'd hit and stared at him. There was no reproach, no pleading in her eyes, just hope. "Why did you take me?" she asked again.

"Does it matter?" he ground out. "I took you away."

"In the North," she said, "the wildlings and the clans, when a man takes a woman away, he means to keep her. You took me," she offered and when he didn't reply, she continued, "You took me from Petyr. He would have married me off for my claim, but he would have kept me all the same."

"Petyr Fucking Baelish will never lay another finger on you, especially not his little finger."

"Why did you take me?!" she screamed at him, her voice cracking and breaking, pushing her hands against his chest.

"Because I love you, you stupid little thing!" he roared. "Because even though I could never have you, I'd be damned if I was going to let that shit Littlefinger use you in his schemes. Because I couldn't protect you from the fucking Lannisters and because I fucking love you!"

He glared at her harder than he ever had before, veins sticking out in his face and neck. He wanted to kiss her, to throttle her. He wanted to cradle her and promise that nothing bad would ever happen again and he wanted to strip her naked and do very bad things to her.

Her hands clenched on his chest, grabbing his jerkin and pulling him closer. He resisted, angry that he'd revealed his feelings, angrier still that she had nothing to say. Finally, she nodded and sobbed out a laugh. She tried to say something then, but her voice was a croak. She scowled, frustrated. When her voice simply would not come, she took one of his hands in hers and put it on her cheek, then placed hers on the thick wretched ruined side of his face. She nodded again, looking at him hopefully. They sat together in the darkening woods, sometimes looking at each other, sometimes not. It seemed an eternity later when Sandor muttered, "Your sister's alive."

"What?" her voice had returned after a rest: hoarse from screaming and crying, but it was still the prettiest voice he'd ever heard.

"She was the last time I saw her anyway. Ran off toward a boat headed across the narrow sea with a sword on her hip."

Sansa shook her head. "Arya."

He told her the story then, of how he'd been captured by the Brotherhood and how he, in turn, had captured Arya, and how they'd come to part. When he'd finished, she smiled at him wryly. "I'm not the first Stark daughter you've made off with?" her voice creaked like wood.

It was good to see her smile again. He laughed at her joke and reached forward to touch her hand tentatively. She moved and he pulled his hand back. She caught it before he could move it out of her grasp and wove her fingers into his. "Promise me you'll be here in the morning," he ground out.

"So long as you'll keep me, I'll stay," she whispered back.

"Go to sleep, little bird." He curled himself around her, tucking her back against his chest and wrapping his arms around her tightly.

"Sandor?" she murmured.

"Mm?"

"I love you."

He grunted noncommittally and she squeezed his hand on her arm. "I wept when they told me you'd been killed."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. You were very good to me. Well, you were gentle. And you came for me and stole me away, just like a Wildling. And I really do love you, very much."

"Mm."

As she drifted off to sleep, some long-forgotten memory slid into her thoughts. King Robert, condemning Lady to die, turned to her father and said, "Get her a dog, she'll be happier for it."

She would have giggled, if she'd had the energy, but she fell into a deep and happy sleep, wrapped up in the Hound's arms.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Sansa woke with her face pushed deep into the moss beside her. During the night, Sandor had rolled over and trapped her to the ground beneath him, perhaps still worried that he'd wake to find her gone. She sighed happily and closed her eyes again. _He loves me!_ she reminded herself. _He really does. I didn't imagine that._

When she'd woken their first night together and found herself in the woods with The Hound, she'd been afraid. Not of him, not of yet another foray in the life of a fugitive, only that she might end up recaptured by the Lannisters. Petyr's makebelieve story about his natural daughter Alayne was transparent and weak and would not have protected her from anyone who truly had a mind to take her. Sandor was proof of that. But she'd felt safer in a castle than she did in the woods. At least a castle had doors to bar, archers to protect her.

And then there was Sandor. The night of the battle, he'd told her that he'd kill anyone who tried to hurt her and she believed it. She still did. And when she opened her eyes in the clearing that first night, she thought he must have killed everyone to get to her. She was glad he hadn't. She wished he'd talked to her more of his reasons when she first asked, weeks ago. As terrible as her last few years had been, and as uncertain her fate, she always knew she was but a small piece on a great game board. Joffrey had wanted her, then he wanted to punish her, Petyr had wanted her mother and was willing to settle for her. They both maneuvered her through political battles, all the time their hands on her: Joffrey's knights beating her, Petyr seducing her. She knew Sandor didn't want to hurt her, like Joff did. She didn't think he'd sell her, either. She hoped if he did, it would be to anyone but the Lannisters. But then they kissed, just like they had the night of … well, in her recollection of the battle. And he'd told her she was beautiful, and he'd caressed her and squeezed her and stroked her. Petyr had never gone nearly so far but every time he touched her, he repulsed her. With Sandor, every touch inflamed her, made her heart race and her stomach flutter. He'd given her pleasure. And that's when she'd decided that he meant to keep her. If he'd been driven simply by lust, surely he would have taken his pleasure and been done with it. As she watched him stroke himself, she remembered Robb and Jon telling her stories of the Wildlings abducting women for wives. They'd meant to scare her. Now the thought was thrilling.

Then he'd been horrible again. She never expected or hoped for him to be gallant and coddling, but his abrupt change was unsettling and his anger terrifying.

But she'd been right! He meant to keep her! Well, he hadn't said as much, but he said he loved her.

She was distracted from her thoughts by something hard poking her in the back. She squirmed a little, pleased by his arousal, although in truth, she didn't quite know why. She wanted him, yes. Evidently he wanted her. Having long ago given up on her childhood fantasies of a perfect life with a beautiful prince for a husband, she harbored no disappointment at the idea of being with Sandor. Would her marriage to Tyrion still be valid? It was never consummated. She would have to ask a Septon, In the meantime, she was happy. But she was unsure what was expected of her.

Still sleeping, he shifted his position so that one of his hand slid up her bodice and cupped a breast, the other sliding along her thigh. As amazing as it felt, she knew that if she let him do this while he slept, he would be cross with her.

He squeezed her breast again, a little more forcefully this time, and she gasped in pleasure. It was enough to wake him and he froze, trying to gauge whether she too was awake. "Good morning," she whispered, her voice husky with desire.

"Sorry, little bird," he muttered, rolling so his weight wasn't pressing down on her and pulling his hands back to almost respectable places on her body.

She turned over to face him and smiled sleepily. Leaning forward, she planted a soft kiss on his lips before hugging him. "Why are you sorry?" she hummed in his ear.

"Shouldn't have touched you like that."

"Why not?" she pressed.

He groaned as she hugged him closer, the scent of her driving him wild, the feel of her making him twitch. "You are a lady and I am a dog," he reminded her, the words a mantra he'd been repeating in his head for over two years. "Got to keep you save, even from me."

She sighed with disappointment. They were so close, her breath tickled his ear and all the way down his neck. "You told me you'd left the Hound behind you. And I told you last night, I'm not a lady, not anymore. We're just us now."

"You'd regret it one day," he promised, desperately wishing he were either a better man or a worse one. "Some day when you meet a fine, handsome lord, you'll be glad a dirty old dog didn't spoil you."

Pushing away from him, she glared at him. "Sandor Clegane," she whispered, her voice quiet like the growl a dog gives before it lunges for your throat, "I am the wife of Tyrion Lannister. Maybe, I'm not sure about the validity of the marriage. Whether I am or no, what lord do you think would risk going against the lions to marry me? And for what? A ruin? Lands that may well have been salted? Petyr thought Harold Hardyng would take me and raise an army and maybe he would have, I don't know. He didn't seem the type to lead men into battle. But I will tell you this for true: I will no longer be used as a bargaining tool."

He grumbled and tried not to stare down at her breasts. "I'm no knight girl and I never will be. But I know what's right. You know I won't let anyone near you that you don't want, but you're young. Very young. It wasn't so awful long ago you thought the little shit prince was your ain true love."

She squeezed her eyes shut and looked to be trying to control her temper. When she finally spoke again, her voice was so quiet and measured, she frightened him a little. "I was forced to marry Tyrion. I would have been forced to marry Harold Hardyng. I didn't love either of them. You watched the Court at their games, I was prey. If you really and truly wanted to do what was right, you'd take me to a septon, have my marriage dissolved, and take me to wife. Should there ever come a time when Winterfell was raised, you would have a claim. If it never comes within our grasp again, no one will have gotten it through me. And whatever the days bring, we will have each other. I love you. I know you think I don't, or you think I'll grow out of loving you. I would rather start a new life with love and have to work at keeping it than start a new life with a stranger and hope that one day I might come to tolerate him."

Somewhere around the time she mentioned finding a septon, his mouth had dropped open. He stared at her for a long time when she finished until he finally found his voice again. "Little bird, did you just propose to me?"

"Yes."

He paused, astonished. "Alright."

Before he could blink, she had thrown herself back against him, her lips pressed to his, her hands clutching his back. He let her take control of the kiss this time, holding her tightly to him but letting her do as she pleased. Soon, her tongue darted nervously against his lips and he opened them, sucking her tongue into his mouth. She whimpered and squirmed against him, rolling back to her pillow of moss and pulling him with her. He planted a knee between her thighs, giving her something to rub against, and began to spread his kisses down her jaw, down her neck. When he got to her collarbone, he sucked hard enough to raise a bruise, and moved to the other side. By the time he'd completed a circuit back to her mouth, she was pleading with him for relief.

"Please, oh please, Sandor, I ache," she moaned, squeezing her thighs tightly around his. He chuckled darkly against her mouth and kissed her again before biting her lower lip. "Will you," she panted, "will you … take me now?"

"No little bird," he murmured, caressing her hip, soothing her when she groaned in disappointment. "You're not ready yet. Besides, I'll not have my bride lose her maidenhead next to a horse plop."

Her eyes flew open and she swiveled her head around to see that Stranger was, indeed, in the process of relieving himself not more than a few feet from her head. She made a noise of dismay and frowned at the beast, who paid her no attention.

"Besides," he said, "I thought you wanted a septon. So you know, whatever wrinkled, self-righteous prick we find is going to go poking around to make sure that maidenhead is still standing. And for him to annul the marriage, you're going to have to tell him your real name. So it damn well better be someone we trust."

He was trying to distract her from grinding against him, she was sure. But he had a point. "Where do we go?"

"White Harbor," he said, although he hadn't thought before saying it. "One of the brothers from the Isle was going there. He was a good man. Or rather, he's a good man now. Might be he'd take pity on two of us on the run."

She was thrilled to have an answer, a goal, and beside herself that he was agreeing to her plan. Standing, she pulled at him, her desperation of only a moment ago forgotten. There was a part of him that figured when they arrived at White Harbor, he'd help her get her marriage annulled and they'd disappear before a marriage could be performed. Her tie to the Imp needed severed, that was certain. They had a few days before they'd reach the city. He could decide in that time whether he was going to do what he knew was right and refuse her, or do what his body and heart demanded and take her for true.

But she dashed away to relieve herself and he did the same, after a fashion, they gave Stranger a quick once-over, and they set out for White Harbor. Maybe they could take sanctuary with Lord Manderly for a time. Sandor had met him a few times; he was a fat and fatuous little crawler, but he was a northman. That had to count for something. Manderly had never seemed real awed by being in the King's presence and seemed to have an open dislike for the rest of the Court. There might be hope.

The closer they got to the ocean, the more travelers they encountered. Sandor kept his cloak on, the hood pulled forward at all times. Sansa hair went into a cap and she made a concerted effort to avoid the gaze of anyone on the road. The brother's cloak gave him an anonymity he'd never had before and allowed him past many gates and doors, besides. The faith of the Seven was strong in White Harbor and he went unnoticed for the most part. Sansa drew attention, there was no way to avoid it. She was too beautiful, even dirty from the road and with her hair still streaked with brown from her time as Alayne. But Septon Crupp was found easily enough and they were able to get an audience with him without much effort.

Crupp appeared in the doorway of his small solar and startled at seeing Sandor before him. "Why Brother Digger, I am certainly surprised to see you."

He was shorter than Sansa, probably not much taller than Arya, in fact. But he was built along strong, sinewy lines and had green eyes that sparkled and a smile that seemed to spread across his whole face. "I had not thought to be here," Sandor admitted.

The septon closed the door behind him and gestured for them to sit, setting a pitcher of water on the small table between their chairs. Sandor sighed. He was desperate for wine, even ale. He'd confessed as much to Sansa three nights prior when he snapped at her for no reason. He took the water that was offered, sipping it before handing it to Sansa in turn.

Crupp grinned. "No trust between friends?"

Sandor snorted and took another drag of water.

"What brings you to me today?" the shorter man asked, resting his chin on his folded hands. "If you are looking for work, I'm sure I can find something for you."

Neither of them had mentioned the girl sitting there sipping sweetwater. It seemed to her that Sandor was weighing the septon in his mind, trying to ask without words whether they could trust him. Finally, the holy man gave a tiny nod, so slight she might have imagined it, and Sandor leaned forward to speak quietly.

"Crupp, I'm trusting you more than you can possibly know. Even showing my face to you is asking for death," he started. Crupp nodded and tilted his head, letting his eyes slide to Sansa for the first time. Sandor looked at her too, a sidelong glance full of everything he desperately wanted but couldn't yet even hope for. "This is Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark."

"I'd heard the Lions had let the little mouse slip from their claws," Crupp offered. "I'd also heard that she is Sansa Lannister now, in truth."

Even the sound of the name set Sandor's teeth on edge. "That's why we're here. We want you to dissolve the marriage."

Crupp pressed his lips to his knuckles, thinking. "Tricky."

"The Imp, Tyrion Lannister that is, never took her," Sandor hurried to tell him. "She's still a maiden. Hasn't it been long enough?"

The septon's eyebrows lifted at 'maiden'. "Is she? Are you certain, Brother?"

"Yes."

"I heard many tales on my travels," Crupp said, as though they were talking about the weather. "I heard she'd murdered the prince and then turned into her dead wolf to flee the hall. Heard Petyr Baelish had a natural daughter crop up out of nowhere, looks just like a Tully."

Sansa felt as though they were both waiting for her to say something. "Your holiness," she started, unsure how to continue, "I am Sansa Stark, who was married to Tyrion Lannister and … presented as Petyr Baelish's daughter. I am a maiden still, I swear it. And I want my marriage dissolved so that I can be free to marry another."

Green eyes met dark grey, Sandor challenging the veteran thief and cutthroat to say anything about the last. Eventually, Crupp shrugged and stood to retrieve a sheet of yellow paper, then filled out all he needed to but his signature. "You'll understand, of course, that I have to examine you," he told Sansa kindly, "and that you must wait outside, Brother Digger. After all, we wouldn't want to tarnish the lady's reputation."

Sandor grumbled but stood nonetheless, giving Sansa a reassuring look before crossing the threshold and closing the door behind him.

"Now you have two options," Crupp said, once the much larger man was gone, "you can tell me that you are here under duress, that he has kidnapped you. I will take you to safety and you never need see him again. Or you can follow me to the next room and I will examine you to make sure you are intact. What is your choice?"

After two years of feeling afraid, being threatened, and trying to make herself below notice, Sansa felt much of the time like the weak and caged bird he'd named her. But it was moments like this when she remembered that she was a wolf. "Holy father," she said sweetly, "I am here of my own volition and I beg of you to do you what you need to do to free me of my marriage."

Crupp grinned widely again and nodded, gesturing for her to follow him. "How you managed to wind up with that miserable sod, I'll never know," he told her, holding up her hand when she meant to respond, "And I never want to know."

There was a sort of couch in the next room, built higher than any she'd ever seen. "Remove your smallclothes and lay back here," he told her. She did so, her hands trembling a bit.

When he squatted down before her with the light of the sun pouring in from the window, he had to be getting an unimpeded view, making Sansa blush and tremble all the more. He patted her knee reassuringly. "I won't hurt you. Might feel a push or a prod, but you'll be fine."

He arranged her how he needed her and slid her skirt over her knees, handing it to her to hold. She wanted to cry out when he pressed a finger inside of her. This was nothing like when Sandor had touched her: where he was passionate and tender and sweet, the septon's manner was cool and his hands probing. He pressed against her maidenhead and she inhaled sharply. Nodding, he withdrew from her, washed his hands, and led her back to the solar. "You may come in now," he called out. Before he'd finished, Sandor was back in the room and at Sansa's side, silently asking for reassurance that she was alright. She nodded and shivered, clutching at him. Crupp signed the papers he'd readied and handed one to Sansa.

"Thank you, father," she breathed, clutching the paper to her chest. "We have one more small favor to ask. We need you to marry us, please."

If he was surprised, he hid it well, simply smiling widely and leading them down to the alter of the Seven below his chambers. On the way, he recruited a penitent to stand as witness. They had none of the trappings Sansa had always dreamed of: there were no guests, no feast, no bride's cloak or bedding. None of it matters anymore. It's like the Queen holding court during the battle. It's expected but just for show.

Sandor held her back before the entered the holy room. "You absolutely sure of this?" he asked. "If you fall in love with a handsome fool in a few years, you be sure he's strong enough to kill me because I am not going to let you go while I live, you understand?"

"I do believe that's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," she grinned devilishly and pulled him behind her.

Making sure everyone was in their places and no stragglers had attached themselves to the party, the septon began. The ceremony was shorter than normal, really just an acknowledgement that both of them entered the union willingly and then they were joined. When he said their names aloud, Sansa's eyes widened and she began to panic. But she soon discovered that their witness was nearly deaf and had fallen into her own prayers once they'd arrived. It's real, she marveled. He's mine now, forever. And I am a Stark again. Wait, no. I'm a Clegane now.

She grinned at him, her new name running through her head over and over again. Sansa Clegane, Sansa Clegane, Sansa Clegane. They clutched hands when prompted to and repeated back the oaths the septon gave them and when they were done, the holy man rested his hand over theirs. "Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark, you have sworn holy oaths this day, to join your two houses. From this day forward, you are married in the sight of the Seven and of the kingdoms of men. Seal this union now with a kiss and go forth together and may the blessings of the Seven shine ever down on you, Sandor and Sansa Clegane."

Sandor pulled her forward with an quick jerk and pressed his mouth to hers, desperate to touch her. Whatever complaint people might have of their pairing, he was allowed to kiss her now, allowed to do much more than that. He had tried to do right by her and she refused. She was the one who asked for their marriage, after all, he simply gave her what she wanted. He was reluctant to release her, but knowing that she was his now for true, he grudgingly let her go, surprised to find that he had not only pulled her closer but lifted her completely off the floor. She looked dazed, stunned, and he smiled at her reassuringly. Reaching into his pocked, he produced a silver and offered it to Crupp, who refused the payment.

"Come with me, if you will, and I'll provide you with the papers," Crupp offered, leading them back to his solar. When they were safe behind its doors once again, he signed the notice and handed it to Sansa.

"Where will you go?" the holy man asked.

It took a moment for Sandor to focus on the question, feeling the girl … his wife, he reminded himself, pressed against him. "Thought I might try Manderly, see if he'd give us shelter a while."

Crupp shook his head. "He's to leave on the morrow to attend Ramsey Snow's wedding. Ramsey Bolton, now, I should say."

Sandor's face curled in disgust. "Boltons. Who's he to marry?"

"I'm told he's to marry Arya Stark," Crupp said gently.

Sansa gasped. "Arya?"

"If I might make a suggestion," Crupp soothed, "Why not attempt to attach yourself to Manderly's retinue? He's sure to travel slowly, he cannot sit a horse. No one will notice an extra couple among a crowd. If you mean to speak to Manderly, there will be ample opportunities on the road to Winterfell."

Sandor nodded, mulling it over. "More risk of being recognized but safer than two of us on the road by ourselves," he conceded. "We need to get a few things before we can journey. If the fucking Brotherhood of shits hadn't taken my gold, we could travel by bloody elephant."

"What's this?" Crupp frowned. Sansa, knowing the story only infuriated Sandor when he told it, sighed and rested her head on his chest.

He related how he'd been captured by the Brotherhood and been put on trial, his life spared but his winnings taken. He told Crupp of Arya and being found by the Elder Brother. "I've even got a bleeding deed," he sneered. "Little shits were so sure they were in the right."

"May I see it?" Crupp asked, intrigued.

Sandor fished it out of a deep pocket in his robe. "You're sure that the girl who traveled with was Arya Stark?"

"Yes. Little wolf bitch is pretty recognizable, even dressed as a boy and covered in crap."

Sansa poked him in the side and he chuckled. Crupp stared at them for a moment, considering. Finally, he stood and went to the window. "You see that roof there? The one with the yellow sign?"

"Yeah?"

"That's an inn. Why don't you retire there for the night? If I may keep this note for a time, I will come find you late tonight."

"Why? It's useless, don't even know why I kept it."

Crupp smiled enigmatically and shook his head. "I wish to make an enquiry. I swear that I will not expose you to danger. Go, have a wedding night. I will join you this evening at nine bells. Should the proprietress seem reluctant, tell her that I sent you."

Sandor snorted and looked to his little bird. She was blushing but smiled up at him timidly. "At nine, then," he agreed, and they parted ways. It was a quick walk to the inn and Sansa was pleased to find the place a friendly, warm place. The innkeeper was a shrewish looking woman, shorter than Sansa by nearly half a foot, but greeted them with a smile.

"Need a room for the night," Sandor told her. "Two baths. Lodging for a horse. And lunch sent up."

"That all?" she frowned. "Only one room?"

"We were just married," Sansa gushed quietly. "Septon Crupp recommended your inn to us."

The innkeep considered them a moment longer then shrugged and hollered for water. "Give me a silver extra and I'll allow you a second room for your second bath. Won't take so long that way."

Sandor sighed and grumbled, but fetched another silver for her. By now, two young boys had appeared with steaming buckets of water and she directed them upstairs and got them settled in the rooms. "Meal's in an hour. I'll have it brought up."

Scarcely had the door closed when Sansa launched herself at her husband. "Oh Sandor, do you really think Arya is being married to Ramsey Snow?"

He barked out a laugh and ran his hand down her back soothingly. "The wolf's got teeth. If it's her, which I don't find likely, she'll rip his throat out while he sleeps."

"I shouldn't be comforted by that," Sansa mused, feeling distracted by his hands on her.

Sandor shrugged and pointed to the tub of steaming water. "Bathe, little bird. I'll do the same after I see Stranger settled."

Part of her wanted to beg him to take her to bed, but the thought of a bath was sorely tempting and she knew well that Stranger wouldn't tolerate anyone but his master putting him into a stall. She nodded and watched him go before pulling off her dress, shift, and smallclothes. The water was just barely too hot and she slid in with a gasp. Within moments it was perfect and she reveled in the feeling before washing herself all over with a chunk of soap they'd left for her. She watched as the water turned darker and darker, the road dirt a minor factor to the remainder of the brown dye coming out of her hair. When she finally stepped out, she felt cleaner than she ever had. Looking down at her filthy dress in loathing, Sansa wrapped herself in a sheet instead, curling up in front of the fireplace. She had nearly drifted off to sleep some time later when there was a knock at the door. "Who is it, please?" she called, clutching the sheet to her chest.

"Serina," the innkeep answered. Sansa stood up, wrapping her shroud tighter around her and opened the door. The older woman glanced at her, set the food down on a side table, and looked at the dirty clothes on the floor. "I'll have the boys come up to empty the tub. That the only dress you got?"

Sansa nodded and the innkeeper gave her a once over. "Keep covered, the boys'll be here in a minute. I'll be back shortly."

True to her word, the two young boys appeared to take away her soiled water, trying to avert their eyes from Sansa who had wrapped herself in Sandor's cloak as well as her sheet while she ate her lunch. When Serina returned, she had had an armful of clothes. "These were left here," she said, offering them to the girl. "Can't promise they'll fit, but they're a sight better than what you had."

Sansa was thanking her as Sandor knocked on the door. Seeing the clothes, he offered the woman another silver but she waved it away. "These were left," she repeated. "Only taking up room."

When she'd gone, Sansa folded and set the clothes on a chair and turned to watch Sandor. He'd had his bath too, his hair still damp and his scars gleaming pink and angry. He drank down the rest of his stew, barely pausing to taste the broth after. She wrapped her arms around him and nuzzled his back. "Haven't changed your mind then?" he asked, only half teasing.

"No, my lord," she murmured, her voice husky and her breathing shallow.

"Not a lord, little bird."

"Yes, you are. You're my lord husband."

He grunted but didn't press the matter, choosing instead to turn in her embrace so they faced each other. She rubbed her nose against his chest, able to feel the coarse hair even though his shirt. When their lips met, it was somehow sweeter and still more intense than any other time they'd kissed. She opened to him almost instantly and he obliged. After a few moments, her felt her fingers fussing at his hips and broke the kiss to see what she was after. "Take your shirt off?" she pleaded, pulling harder until one side was loose from his breeches. He chuckled and pulled it off over his head. At the sight of his massive chest bare, she whimpered and reached forward boldly to trace the lines of his body. Her fingers found scars so old he'd forgotten how he got them and the burn on his arm from Thoros' sword before returning to caress his taut belly muscles, toying with the hair leading down into his breeches. Groaning, his hands fumbled at the knot in her sheet until it was loose around her. He didn't let it drop, keeping her covered until she moved to shimmy out of it. Staring at her bare for the first time, he wanted to weep. How many nights had he spent in the Keep in his little cell with his hand wrapped around his cock, trying to imagine how she'd look? And here she was, standing before him looking like the Maiden made flesh. She nervously started to cover her breasts but he ran his hands down her sides and she calmed. He moved her back until she lay on the bed and he followed, pressing kisses to her chest, her breasts, her belly. He laved and sucked her nipples until they were red, hard, and pebbled, then twisted them gently.

She whimpered his name and he looked up to see her eyes glazed and her face desperate. "I ache," she whispered, reaching for him. He leaned up quickly to kiss her once again but slid down to continue his trek down her body. "I know, sweet, I know," he told her between kisses. "You remember the song about the Bear and the Maiden Fair?"

"Bear?" she asked, lost to the pleasure he was stoking in her.

"And she had honey in her hair," he quoted as he reached her mound. Nuzzling his nose in her wiry curls, he took one long, slow swipe of his tongue along her slit before plunging inside. Sansa keened and arched her back, his name a prayer on her lips. He took her to the very brink, licking, sucking, before slowing for a moment and carefully pressing one finger inside her to his first knuckle. She tensed and he continued his kissing without moving his hand until she relaxed again. Sliding in a little further he felt her maidenhead and pressed against it gently, causing her to gasp. He pulled back and slid his finger higher up, avoiding the veil. She whined with need, grasping at him with hands and with her cunt. He withdrew and returned with two fingers this time. _Gods, so tight. There's no way I won't hurt her._

Before long she tipped over the edge, moaning and gasping his name as she shuddered, her belly contracting, and her face clenched in pleasure. He let her ride out her climax and then pressed a third finger inside of her. She twitched but didn't object and he stroked her in swift, even strokes until she climaxed again, drenching his hand. Only then did he remove his hand, sucking her juices off, and moved to lay beside her on the bed. She was panting and beads of sweat had formed on her forehead. "Oh, oh," she whimpered, "Oh thank you."

He chuckled at her and nuzzled her neck until her breathing returned to normal. She blinked heavily and turned to him, tentatively reaching her hand out for his breeches where his manhood strained against the laces. Stroking him through the cloth, she smiled when it twitched in her hand, and pulled at the knot hiding him from her. He ended up helping, then standing to take his breeches off. She was transfixed by his arousal when he stood in front of her, eyes fixed on the length of him. "You alright?" he asked quietly, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. "Won't do anything you don't want," he reminded her.

She didn't answer but reached forward and touched him so lightly that if he hadn't been watching her, he might have thought he imagined it. Giving him a questioning look, she reached her hand down to his base and slid it up slowly. He groaned and thought his knees might give out. "Should I do," she started, her voice soft and timid, "um, should I use my mouth too?"

He took a deep breath to steady himself. "Someday," he grunted. "But I can't wait. I want you so much, little bird. Can I come back to bed? Are you ready?"

Her smiled was nervous, but she nodded and held her arms out to him. Carefully, he lay his weight out on top of her, trembling from her touch. "Oh you pretty thing, you sweet girl. I love you," he murmured, kissing her again and again, stroking her breasts, her sides. "Love you more than life, Sansa Stark."

"Clegane," she gasped. He pulled back, thinking she was telling him to stop. "What's wrong?"

"Sansa Clegane," she whimpered as his hand squeezed her breast gently. "Not Stark."

He groaned in desire and attacked her mouth, clutching her tighter and tighter until there was no room left between them. "Please," she whispered, stroking his hip.

"My lady," he responded, "I need you my lady."

"Take me."

He reached to spread her legs and hoisted one up over his hips and she lifted the other, digging her heels into him gently. "It's going to hurt," he warned her. "This first time at least, it will."

She nodded and stroked the ruined side of his face, holding her breath. Carefully, he guided himself to her center and spread her lips with his fingers. He pressed forward an inch so he rested just inside of her, pressed against her maidenhead again. "Hold on to me," he whispered, trying to restrain himself. "Hold on, little bird. Ready?"

At her nod, he thrust forward. Instantly, he was torn in two: half of him wanted to bellow at the hot, wet, tight grip and the other half wanted to hold her as she cried out. He shook his head at that. _I'M the one torn in two? _He stilled his hips and kissed away a tear that ran down her cheek. "I'm sorry," he murmured, "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," she replied, trying to smile, still trembling from the sudden pain. "I'll be alright in a moment. You're just so big."

"Oh Sansa," he chuckled, "Don't be frightened, but that's only half of me."

She whimpered but giggled along with him. "The little bird and her big man," she whispered. After a moment more, she kissed him again. "Alright, I think I'm ready."

He braced himself and pressed forward, watching her face for signs of pain or panic. Eventually, he was fully seated in her, almost breathless in his pleasure. She hadn't opened her eyes again so he put his weight on one arm and took one of her hands with his other, sliding it down between them. "Oh Sansa, gods you're perfect. I know I'm too big, I'm sorry. But feel this, feel us. Like a sword in its sheath."

He rubbed her fingers along her lower lips and then pressed them to where they were joined, her skin stretched tight around him. She groaned then in desire and bucked gently against him, wincing.

Moving his hand back to the bed, he braced his weight and pulled out slowly, then slowly thrust back in. "Alright?" he asked her, his throat tight.

"I like it," she murmured. "I do."

"It'll be better next time," he promised, thrusting again.

She squeezed his hip with her hand as he thrust again, a little faster this time. "Can't, can't," he whispered, desperately trying to restrain himself. "Got to speed up, little bird, I'm sorry, I can't bear it. I'll finish quickly, I promise."

Her eyes opened and she smiled at him encouragingly although he could tell he was still fighting the pain. He kissed her tenderly and wrapped one arm underneath her to press their chests together and let his body take over. He hadn't slept with a woman in nearly a year and a half and he wouldn't have lasted long no matter who was beneath him but here, clutched against the little bird, he knew he would finish within moments. He pulled out and thrust quicker, trying not to snap his hips into her. He grunted as he thrust into her once, twice, and once more before his climax hit and he roared into her neck. He had never come so hard in all his life, it felt like he would end up as bruised as she was. When at last his spurts stopped, he thrust once more, shuddering against her, before pulling out carefully and laying back on the bed, cradling her to him.

_It hurt_, Sansa thought, _but that was to be expected. Besides, it started to feel good near the end. And I would rather suffer that pain every time we joined than ever have to even look at Joffrey again._

When he had caught his breath, Sandor leaned down to kiss her again before standing up to get a rag wet to clean her off. She had bled, although it wasn't as bad as he feared, and he wiped her down gently, cleaning off blood and sweat and his seed from her thighs, her cunt. He cleaned himself off as well, and slide another rag under her hips to keep her out of the wet spot on the linen. She watched him as he cared for her, the love in her boiling over to the point she thought she wouldn't be able to bear it.

He came back to bed then, wrapping her in his arms. "I'm sorry, little bird. It won't always be like that," he whispered again.

"I liked it, toward the end," she told him. She felt his surprise. "Really?"

"Yes. The pain had eased some, and it felt good with you inside me."

He grunted happily and kissed her hair. "Besides," she yawned, "no one will be able to annul this marriage!"

She giggled at her own jest and yawned again, falling asleep against him within minutes. He knew he should have been drowning in guilt for taking her innocence, but he couldn't quite bring himself to feel it. Although he didn't want to admit it, she had a point when she said that no lord would go against the Lannisters to wed a traitor. And what's done was done. I had a holy man's blessing, he reminded himself. He knew who we were for true, and he wed us. No one can say the gods didn't approve.

It was with that thought comforting him that he slid into sleep. Used to it as he was, the forest was a poor substitute for a feather bed. He didn't realize how much he'd missed it, although he was sure Sansa was even more relieved to be back in civilization once again. They slept, curled up together for hours.


	6. Chapter 6

It was the bells that woke them, nine dolorous, loud tolls of the city bell that announced the closing of the city gates. On the first ring, Sandor sat up in bed, reaching for a sword he didn't have. By the fourth bell, he was soothing Sansa as she too woke, covering her ears to block out the clamor. By the eighth bell, he sneered to himself wondering if Crupp had forgotten about them or simply hadn't bothered to return. And as the ninth bell echoed into silence, there was a heavy knock from beside the fireplace.

Instantly, Sandor was on his feet, sword in hand. He motioned for Sansa to be quite and she nodded, clutching the blanket to her chest. Carefully, Sandor slinked to the wall opposite the bed and waited. There was a second knock and then finally, a beleaguered, "Brother Digger? May I enter?"

Still wary, Sandor called out the all clear and a part of the wall opened along a seam and in stepped Septon Crupp and a thin girl with green hair.

The young girl gasped and spun around as soon as she'd entered the room and it was only then that Sandor realized he was still naked. "A moment," he growled, keeping his eyes on their visitors. He slipped on his breeches and a thin shirt, then handed Sansa a shift.

"Decency has been restored," he chuckled , gesturing for their visitors to sit. "Apologies. I was fucking aware we were expecting dormice."

Crupp smiled that knowing grin. "I did tell you I'd be back at nine bells."

"You didn't mention the bloody means of your arrival."

"No," Crupp conceded. "My lady, I do apologize." He dipped his head toward Sansa, who sat silently on the bed.

"It's alright, father," she smiled nervously, wishing she was covered by more than a thin shift.

The septon took the seat that had been offered him and, following his lead, the green-haired girl sat beside him. "Allow me to introduce Wylla Manderly. Lady Manderly, Sandor and Sansa Clegane."

Sandor glared at the others and let the tip of his sword rest against the floor, a subtle reminder of his power. "You wished to treat with Lord Manderly," the septon reminded him, unconcerned of the threat, "He is unable to attend for many reasons. Wylla is his granddaughter, a loyal northern girl, and she speaks with her grandfather's voice in these matters."

Wylla stood and curtsied, returning to her seat. "My lady, my heart broke when your brother was betrayed by the Freys. He would have been a good king. I am very sorry for your loss."

Sansa nodded her thanks and smiled. Wylla was about her age, wiry where Sansa was willowy, and her hair … what could have possessed her to dye it green?

"I told you this afternoon that Manderly is called to Winterfell to witness the wedding of Roose Bolton's bastard to Arya Stark. I do not believe the girl is Arya. Lord Manderly and I are of a mind on this. This is not the only reason he was called, however. Bolton is seeking to reestablish the north as a force to be reckoned with. Until recently, Manderly dare not show support for the Lannisters had his son held captive. Thank the gods, he has now been returned, under the provision that several Frey men now hold positions in the White Harbor court."

"Traitorous filth," Wylla offered, her pretty face contorting in disgust.

"Indeed. And they have been dealt with as such. However, there is still the matter of this trek north. Lord Manderly has a proposition for you."

Sandor scowled but found a seat on the edge of the bed, leaving his sword on the table beside him. Sansa scooted forward and perched beside him, managing to look dignified even when dressed in the plainest cotton frock.

"Well?"

"We know who you are," Wylla told them, her voice now calm and dispassionate. "Both of you. We want you to know that you are safe with us. My grandfather means to march north to Winterfell to give back a piece of the rotten meat he's been forced to call veal for months. He wants to reveal 'Arya' as an imposter and use our own forces to unseat the Boltons from Winterfell."

"I want to make it clear now," the septon interrupted, "Manderly is not promising to restore Winterfell to you, nor is he thinking about raising you up as the Queen of the North. His business with the Boltons and the Freys is personal. He makes you no promises of winning, nor of supporting your claim."

"We will see," Wylla consented. "We would have you accompany us on this journey. You will be provided the protection of our men, all of them loyal to the North and, should the pieces fall as we hope, you may well be installed in your home once more. We do not set our sights on conquering it, merely of ridding it of pests. We need you, Lady Sansa, to stand as witness that the girl Ramsay Snow is to marry is not your sister. Lord Clegane, your strength and swordsmanship is legendary. If you would stand in my grandfather's vanguard, he will reward you."

"This is all very grand," Sandor rasped. "But how many men can you possibly have? It won't be enough to shake free the flayers. Not only that, they may well have the support of the other lords."

"The Karstarks, the Umbers," Sansa offered, "Hornwood, Mormont, Reed."

"The Hornwoods, at least, will be with us. My aunt is the Lady Hornwood now and they have long known that the Boltons had designs on their land. The success of this venture is something we must all hope for, work for," Wylla continued. "And we need you, my lady. No one else's word could stand against your own."

"This girl has spent two years locked up in a cage with hungry lions and slimy upstarts. I'll not let you drag her into a war to give the nod whether another girl has a claim to what is hers. And I'll not lay down my life for Manderly. My sword is hers now, I am not for sale."

Wylla's eyes widened and she shook her head desperately. "No, no, you would remain at her side. Grandfather doesn't mean for you to lead the vanguard, only to bring your knowledge and experience to the other men."

"No."

"A moment, Clegane. I presented Manderly with your writ of debt from the Brotherhood. He is willing to take on the note, giving you the full 38,000 in gold that was taken from you," Crupp encouraged.

"Why in the fucking hells would he do that?"

"The Brotherhood, for all their many faults, believe they are serving the realm. Or they once did. Manderly truly does wish to serve the realm. Although their use does not outweigh their sins, the Brotherhood has taken care of some pests that plagued our people. I'm sure one day we will have to deal with them in turn, but for now, we are happier, healthier, and richer for a few of their deeds. Grandfather would take over this debt to balance our ledger with them and to reward you for your assistance. What you do once we reach Winterfell and have confirmed Arya to be false is entirely up to you."

"What if it is Arya?" Sansa asked doubtfully.

Wylla's voice was a hush. "My lady, if it is truly your sister, we will use every man to free her from the Boltons. Whomever this girl is, they mean her no good."

Sandor stood and paced for a long time, glancing alternately at Sansa and at the night sky. When Wylla started to speak again, Sansa shook her head no and continued to watch her husband brood.

Finally, he snagged a goblet of wine from the side table and took a gulp before confronting the visitors. "Manderly pays the 38,000 gold pieces, guarantees safe conduct, and may even fight to support a claim and all he asks in return is for the lady to say whether that's it's her sister and for me to be a wet nurse to his men?"

"You know more about siege warfare and hand-to-hand combat than most anyone alive," Crupp reminded him. "The lord doesn't need a wet nurse, but an advisor."

"And he understands that her safety is paramount to anything? Even if it means his own life?"

Wylla paled but nodded. "And there is more."

The big man sighed heavily. "There always is."

"Theon Greyjoy is not the one who put the torch to Winterfell."

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. She'd never liked Theon much, but hearing of his betrayal had hurt nonetheless. "And he did not murder your brothers," Wylla smiled shyly at her. "We don't know whose bodies Theon hung from the battlements, but they were not Bran and Rickon Stark. We have men out searching for your brothers even now, my lady."

Sansa sobbed happily and covered her face with her hands. "It was Ramsay Snow," Crupp continued. "And there is more, though I doubt it is wise for the ladies to know."

"This lady has withstood more than you'll ever know," Sandor harrumphed, pride evident in his voice as he stroked her hair. "If the mermaid can't bear it, we can wait."

Wylla shrugged and Crupp took a deep breath. "You know the sigil of the Boltons?"

"Flayed man. It's unsettling as fuck."

"Yes. Well, I rather doubt that Roose Bolton has ever actually flayed a man."

There was an uncertain, heavy silence after that. "Meaning that Snow has?"

Crupp nodded.

"Gods. Who?"

"We believe he has been … toying … with Theon Greyjoy after taking him prisoner. And then there are the women. Ramsay's favorite sport has left the neighboring villages rather short on young women. I tell you all this now and yes, I'm still asking you to take the lady Sansa to Winterfell. These are desperate times, Clegane. We must stand together or watch the world shatter around us. We need you."

All of them were surprised when Sansa's voice broke the tension. "And you need me. I know Arya. And I know Winterfell. There are trails through the godswood, tunnels through the keep."

Her chin was held high, her eyes glinting the way they did they day she nearly pushed Joffrey from the battlements. This time though, he wouldn't stop her. Couldn't stop her, maybe.

"We travel by barge?" Sandor asked, his eyes fixed on Sansa's fierce glare. "When? How many are we?"

"Lord Manderly plans to set out before midday tomorrow. He's taking 400 men with many wayns of food to be loaded onto barges. Three Frey lads are being sent overland to be returned to their families."

He considered that a moment, then asked the septon for paper to start taking some notes. "No one expects Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse to make good time to Winterfell. If it took him more than a fortnight, no one would see anything amiss. Send 100 men ahead. Hide them in the wood, in the village. They need to stay out of sight, just be ready. We need to get some clothes, find a way to hide who the little bird is as best we can. There's no hiding me, not really. When we get near, anyone sees me and starts asking questions, the truth will suffice. Left the Lannisters, sword for hire."

Together they drew up a list of supplies he thought they'd need and shortly before midnight, the visitors said their farewells. As Wylla disappeared through the hidden doorway, Sansa called her back. "One other thing. Could you get some moontea?"

She was blushing fiercely but never broke eye contact. As of today, she was a woman wedded and bedded. There was nothing shameful about taking precautions, although it embarrassed her deeply to give even a passing mention about bedsport.

Wylla assured her that there would be some in their things when they arrived in the morning and bid her a goodnight. The door closed and silence descended. Eventually, Sandor banked the fire and came back to bed, stripping off his clothes as he crawled back in with her.

"Don't set your heart on this," he warned her. "Winterfell is a keep. If they have the sense of a damn fly they could hold for years before that place was seized."

She ignored his gruff tone and snuggled closer to him. "I want to see Winterfell again," she admitted. "If we can't win it, we'll raze it. Better to have it destroyed for true than to leave it in the hands of the Boltons."

"Who is this in my arms? I can't imagine Jonquil ever planning the devastation of her family lands," his voice was harsh but she knew he was teasing her. "Not very maidenly."

"You may have forgotten," she murmured, rubbing against him, "but I am no longer a maiden. A brave man broke down the castle door to rescue me from the tower."

He grunted as her hand found his belly and slid lower. "I will forget the color of my own eyes before I forget that," he assured her. "And how is the castle?"

"Hmm?"

Snaking a hand down her body, he teased the curls of her mound. "Is the causeway a ruins? Or can it be breached safely?"

When she only moaned and kissed him, he tried again. "Are you sore, girl? Or do you ache?"

"Both," she sighed. He slid a finger into her folds, rubbing her pearl, exploring the whole of her before pressing into her carefully. She whimpered but didn't push him away or ask him to stop so he slowly built up a rhythm with one finger, adding a second when she relaxed around him enough to do so.

"You're so wet. Now you've had a taste you've a hunger. How does that feel? Does it hurt?" He was hard and dripping, pressed against her leg.

"A little."

He pulled his hand free and she whined. "I won't hurt you more than I have to," he told her. "You'll heal up a bit and I'll take you again. And again. I swear it."

She nodded reluctantly, although she had begun to sling herself over him before he dissuaded her. "Can we … can we do something else?"

"I fucking hope so. My cock is so hard I can barely move. What do you want? What can you take?"

"Perhaps …you kissed me this afternoon?" she offered, hoping he'd understand.

He growled happily and began to kiss along her chest, rubbing her teats, sucking her nipples into his mouth. While he played there, he pressed his hand back into her, circling but never touching her bud. Pull back from her breasts, he admired her wet, hard nipples. Pursing his lips, he blew on them and Sansa nearly broke his nose, bending in half with a snap that surprised him. She whined as she contracted and he stared at her, amazed.

"Did you just come from me blowing on your tits?" he asked. "I was barely even touching you."

She only whimpered and nodded in response, relaxing back against the pillow slowly. "Damn me but you needed that, didn't you? You're so fucking sensitive. So eager. Gods, Sansa."

He began to rub in earnest now, kissing her lips furiously and tweaking her nipples gently. She came again with a quiet wail, grinding into his hand. "So fucking beautiful," he whispered in her ear. "So wet, so wanting. You're like a bitch in heat."

She frowned at him and he laughed. "No, you're a wolf, aren't you? A bloody fierce she-wolf in heat for the first time."

Her lips latching onto one of his nipples silenced his laughter quickly enough and he ran one hand through her hair to the base of her skull, holding her against his chest. She moved to the other one and laved it, sucked it, pulled it gently with her teeth until he was panting. A trail of kisses led her down his belly then, past his belly button and down to his groin. It was the first time she'd gotten a good, close look at his manhood and she was fascinated. It was long and thick, so red it almost seemed purple. It was no surprise she was still sore with this as her initiation. She traced a vein along the underside with her fingertip until she got to what lay beneath. Carefully, she rubbed one of his balls with her thumb against the palm of her hand. As focused as she was, it had escaped her attention that Sandor was now panting, clenching his fists in the blankets so as to not thrust.

She ran her tongue along the inside of her mouth nervously, seriously worried that she might dislocate her jaw if she attempted to do what he'd done for her. She daintily pressed her lips to the head of his cock, as polite a kiss as any maid might give a knight. He laughed then, a breathless bark at the absurdity of her minding her manners when playing with his cock.

She glanced at him, concerned. "Did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, little bird, you're doing fine. You're just so damn ladylike, I had to laugh."

Giving him an uncertain look, she tried again, kissing the side of him with an open-mouthed kiss. He groaned and her eyes flew to him once more.

"I'm not sure … what should I do?" she asked.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and, cursing himself, said, "You don't have to do anything, little bird."

"I want to!" She studied him again and gave a tentative lick from root to tip. "Tell me what I should do," she asked again.

Somehow he found the breath to instruct her. "Wrap your hand around the base, yes, like that, good. Now, open your mouth around me. Yes, just like that. Watch you teeth, wrap your lips over your teeth. Oh gods, girl. Can you take more of me?"

She tried to cover her teeth as she slid him slowly into her mouth but soon she was gagging. "Alright, it's alright," he murmured, resting a hand at the back of her head. "Relax your throat. You can't take all of me, I know, it's alright. Oh fuck. Fuck me, you are perfect. Now suck. Oh fuck, yes!"

Although she was being very careful, his encouragement was bracing. She managed to get nearly half of him into her mouth before she gagged again. It wasn't nearly so unpleasant as she imagined when she heard Randa talk about it, in fact, she kind of liked the sensation of sucking on him. It was difficult to breathe and she was sure that drool was making its way down her chin, but she had stopped caring. At his direction, she began to stroke him where her mouth couldn't reach, twisting slightly and sucking, swallowing, sucking. His hand on the back of her head was reassuring, although it also frightened her. She worried that he might shove her further down than she could go and she'd choke, but he restrained himself. He started guiding her head up and down his shaft as she sucked and stroked until she picked up the rhythm herself.

Her jaw was just beginning to get sore when his hand tightened in her hair and he growled out from behind clenched teeth, "I'm going to come, you don't have to take it, just keep stroking with your hands. Oh fuck, yes."

She moved her head back since he'd told her he didn't mind. She wanted to watch and see what he meant when he said he'd come. That time in the woods, weeks ago, she'd seen what he looked like after he came and this afternoon she could feel something but she wanted to see, to know.

So she stroked with both hands, pulling and twisting and loving the filthy, terrible things that spewed from his mouth. "Oh fuck yes, gods, yes, Sansa. Yes. Faster. Ohh. Yes. I love watching your tits bounce with your hands on my cock. Fuck. Sansa, I'm …."

He trailed off with a roar as he came, his cock twitching, pulsing in her hands, sending up shot after shot of creamy white liquid. She froze in amazement, watching his muscles tense and release. He grabbed one of her hands even as he spent, moving it up and down his shaft, milking the last of his orgasm. When it was finished, he lay back against the pillow panting, squeezing her hand gently in a comforting, thankful way. A moment later, she lifted her other hand to examine where some of his seed had landed against her fingers. Remembering how he'd seemed to enjoy her taste that day, she licked his spend off her knuckle. He watched her, fascinated. If he hadn't just had a massive, explosive orgasm, he could have come just watching that. As it was, he twitched a bit.

"You don't have to do that," he murmured. "Most women don't like the taste."

Sansa turned to look at him, her finger stuck between her lips. He groaned and closed his eyes. "I don't mind it," she informed him. "Tastes like the juice from wild game."

Using the edge of the linens to clean him off, Sansa curled up against him. "Sandor?" she whispered.

"Mm?"

"I hope you weren't hurt when I asked for moontea."

He chuckled and stroked her hair. "No pups for my wolf?"

"Not yet," she rushed to correct him. "But one day, if you want them, I'll want to give you children."

"We're supposed to be resting," he reminded her. "You trying to get my blood up again? No, you were right. This is no world to be bringing a babe into, not with the lions on our tail and the flayers before us."

"But someday?"

He growled sleepily and massaged her belly where one day she would carry his child. "Someday, little bird. We'll have a whole litter of pups, hmm?"

They slept then, and Sansa had an achingly beautiful dream of sitting beside Sandor in front of one of the great fireplaces at Winterfell with a little boy asleep on his lap and her belly swollen with another. It was the first truly good dream she'd had since her first days at King's Landing.


	7. Chapter 7

Early the next morning, they gathered their things and headed for the harbor. Sansa was securely ensconced in their cabin aboard Manderly's barge before Sandor got Stranger settled and brought the rest of their things onboard. Her brilliant auburn hair had been dulled to a muddy brown again and piled under a snood with a veil across her eyes; her dress replaced with a dull yellow gown, the best attempt they could make to disguise her. Sandor was too recognizable to both fussing over, but no one knew of their connection yet, which made her somewhat safer.

It took them nearly a fortnight on the river before they reached the short road to Winterfell. Their days fell into a routine quickly: they'd wake and one of the servants would bring breakfast, Sandor would spend the morning drilling with Manderly's knights while Sansa sketch out everything she could remember about Winterfell's layout and tunnels, they'd lunch, and then join Wyman Manderly in his rooms for the afternoon where Sansa would discuss what she had worked on that morning and Sandor provided advice about its use, they ate supper with him and then retired to their own cabin once again. Not for the first time, Sansa wished she had spent more time playing with Arya. All of the Stark children knew about the tunnels that lead from Winterfell to the Godswood and to the Winter Town, but it was Arya who had discovered the passages inside the walls, the floors slanting and bowing. Of course, her little sister had bowled into her, covered it dirt and cobwebs and told her all about them, but Sansa hadn't listened closely. She'd been more worried about the dirt Arya carried with her and she was shamed by the her dismissal of her sister. Still, she remembered enough to help.

It had been decided early on that Sansa would be presented as the Lady Alysanna Clegane to the others in their party: an orphaned highborn lass who attached herself to the younger Clegane to secure her future. The story was true enough to fall easily from their lips when asked and yet a common enough one to not arouse suspicion. Sansa was particularly pleased when she decided on the name Alysanna: having been called Alayne for so long in the Vale, she responded easily to the 'Al-' and should someone slip and speak her true name, it could be easily be brushed off as misspeaking 'Alysanna'. As much thought as she had put into her new name and their story, only a few spoke to her since she kept to the shadows and the solitary areas of the barge. They both agreed that it was better to stay as hidden as possible, although she got a bit lonely in the mornings. Wylla had offered to join them for the trip but her grandfather forbade it, as she could then be taken as the demanded hostage when they arrived at Winterfell.

Sandor found a short-handled rondel in the weapons stores and gave it to her, insisting she wear it at all times, hidden in the folds of her skirt. It surprised him how little resistance she gave to it, but for all the trust she had in him, she was still scared. Her fears were not unfounded and he wished that he could comfort her enough to soothe the worry lines from her face, but if her fear made her willing to protect herself with steel, he'd live with it.

They arrived at Winterfell too soon for either of their liking. The Winter Town was beginning to fill with the northern small folk who would take shelter here in the winter, and the inn had been all but taken over by part of the Manderly regiment. Sandor rode ahead to claim their room, one of the last available. The rest of Manderly's assembled forces trundled past the gates of Winterfell, along with the wayns full of food and drink for the wedding. One evening, after a conference with the lord and his council, Sandor returned to their cabin and instructed her that she was not, under any circumstances, to eat any meat that was not readily identifiable. When she asked why, he only shook his head and told her she didn't want to know. As they watched the wagons pass into Winterfell, Sansa shivered and tried not to retch.

The gates closed heavily behind their party and Sandor pulled her close to him to comfort her. "Remember, you are a wolf," he murmured. "Your den is burned, your pack is scattered, but you're a wolf. It won't be easy, I promise you that. But you must be strong. All that time you spent at court watching their little games, taking everything they gave you, that's all just to prepare you for this."

She took a deep, shuddering breath and faced him, her face dry. "Together," she said. He nodded and smiled at her. "Together."

They slipped out through a back hallway and made their way to the wall of Winterfell and the Hunter's Gate. It was open, as Manderly had promised. His men had taken the watch and were there to open it for them. "We won't be here long," one of them reminded Sandor as they slipped in. "Lord Manderly thinks Bolton will keep the guard duty for his own men soon."

It was easy to fade into the Godswood from there. Sansa kept her eyes trained on the trees, watching for the weirwood where thousands of Starks had knelt to pray to the Old Gods. Once they were in eyeshot of the ancient tree, Sansa pushed her way to the south where a thick grove of evergreens stood, dark and forbidding. There they waited, wrapped in dark furs in the growing twilight and heavy mist. It was nearly an hour later when the wedding guests started to fill the grove. Some of them seemed familiar, but Sansa wouldn't have been able to name any of them except Roose Bolton and Lord Manderly. The sound of the wedding was deadened by the fog and the trees, but they could see well enough.

"That's not her," Sandor whispered in her ear. His voice was so soft, she felt the words in his breathe against her ear easier than she heard it. "That's not your sister."

Sansa nodded, relieved. Then the bride turned her face toward them and Sansa nearly wailed in misery. No, it's not Arya. It's Jeyne! It's Jeyne Poole. Gods, please help her.

The marriage took only a moment, shorter even than their own. The group moved back toward the keep, all but the old man who had escorted Jeyne to the hearttree. He stood alone, looking at the forest around him. As he turned toward them, hidden in the pines, Sansa recognized him. "Theon," she gasped. Sandor clapped his hand over her mouth, although she had already pressed her lips together to silence herself.

The ruin of Theon Greyjoy glanced around at the trees in fear and scuttled away to rejoin the party. They waited until he was out of sight before returning to the Hunter's Gate. Shift change hadn't happened yet and the same guards who let them in opened the door for them to leave. Sandor kept her pressed to him until they were back in the inn. He didn't yell at her for calling out in the forest, didn't sneer or even scowl, just waited to see what her reaction would be.

"That was Jeyne," she told him, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. "She was my best friend. She was with me at King's Landing but the Queen sent her away. I thought they'd killed her. This is worse."

He nodded, remembering the day Cersei had ordered the girl removed from the main keep. "And that was Theon," she shuddered. "What have they done to him? Jeyne at least still looks like Jeyne, but Theon! He looks dead!"

"Don't remember him," he rumbled.

"His hair was brown. Now it's white! And he's teeth!" she exclaimed.

"And fingers, I'm told. And toes. The Bastard got 'hold of him," he told her. "Just be glad it wasn't your sister."

"What would we have done? What if had been Arya?"

He sighed and moved away to start stripping off the fur cloaks he wore. "If it had been her, I would have given a signal and would have held off as many as I could until Manderly's men came. We wouldn't have let them be married."

"Why did you let him marry Jeyne?" she asked, her eyes dry but red.

"Not in my part of the plan," he grumbled. "Keep out of the games the lords play, little bird. I made it damn clear to Manderly that I wouldn't bow and scrape to him so all I was told were the parts that concerned you and me."

They finished dressing for bed in silence and curled up together on the narrow straw mattress. "So what do we do now?"

"Now we wait. I'd feel better about it if we were inside the walls. Feels awfully exposed here. Manderly says Stannis is on the march to Winterfell, they're going to bend the knee when he gets here."

"Why didn't we stay, then?"

He grumbled and hoisted her closer. "Where? I wouldn't risk staying in the keep in case there was trouble."

"There was one place I didn't tell Lord Manderly about," she confessed, smiling into his chest. "Just in case something went amiss."

"Clever little bird!" he growled, running his hands up her ribs. "Savvy little wolf. Found us a hidey hole, did you?"

She whimpered as he found her breasts and kneaded them. "Arya and I found it," she panted, "one of the few times I went with her. We cleaned it up, made a little house. It's probably a mess again now, though."

"Stories later, songs now," he muttered, sucking hard on her neck. She slid her hands up his back and clutched his shoulders. It took him a moment to realize she was crying. He moved his hand up to her face to rub away her tears. "What is it?"

"I thought I was ready," she whispered. "I couldn't even see the rest of Winterfell, but I could smell it. You can still smell the smoke."

He started to ease his weight off of her but she stopped him. "Don't leave," she begged.

"Not going anywhere, just going to lay back."

"Don't, please."

"Sansa," he whispered. "I won't leave you. You're upset, should be comforting you, not crushing you."

She stopped him again. "No, I want to forget. Help me forget."

He hovered, unsure. She sniffled and rubbed a hand across her eyes and smiled at him wetly. After a moment, he gave her a gentle kiss and stroked hair out of her face. "You'll never be able to forget," he told her gruffly. "And you shouldn't. You can put it aside, but you can't lose it, or you lose part of yourself."

"I love you," she said, turning to kiss the hand that stroked her face. "Whatever else I've lost, whatever else I am, I love you. I'm yours."

"And I'm yours," he agreed, smiling. "And isn't that a fucking wonder?"

She grinned and laughed, kissing him again. He let her lead, unsure of what he should do. Never in his life had he been required to comfort a heartsick girl, let alone one who only moments before he'd been seducing. When she pulled at the laces of his breeches, he let her, but didn't move to help. She freed him eventually, then pulled her shift up and over her shoulders to feel his skin against hers.

It was the slowest, sweetest joining they'd yet had. Sandor thrust so slowly his rhythm was nearly undetectable, brushing his lips over her neck, sucking on her earlobes and offering gentle kisses. She mewled in his arms and pressed herself against him, desperate to close the space between them. He shifted his weight and rolled so she was draped across him, and with encouragement, she began to rock against him. Gasping at the new sensation, she braced her hands on his chest and propped herself up to roll her hips again and again. As she sped up, the muscles in her legs quivered, unused to the effort she demanded as she thrust herself up and down. He braced her hip with one hand and with the other, he slid his fingers to where they joined and pressed gently so she could feel the connection. She gasped and clutched his chest until he slid up and rolled her pearl between his fingers, massaging it with determination. She whimpered and instantly yelped as she climaxed, freezing her hips and shuddering against him. He kept up his attentions but pulled her down to his chest, using the balance change to continue thrusting up into her. She came again, quivering against him and moaning. He slowed his hips but kept the power of his thrusts and pushed her over yet again. "No more," she moaned. "I can't fall again."

"One more," he growled, rolling back on top of her and pulling her knees up around his back, thrusting hard and fast. She was getting sore, but it felt amazing and she pressed her heels into his back, driving him on. It didn't take long for her to peak one last time, wailing out and melting bonelessly into the bed. He watched her fall apart, pride swelling in him as reached his own peak, grunting with each spurt as he came. Exhausted, sweating, and happy, he slid away to lay down beside her. After taking a moment to recover and catch his breath, he turned to ask her how she was faring. He was pleased to see that she was asleep, a dopey smile across her face. _Fucked her senseless, _he grinned to himself._ Have to threaten that next time she fusses at me over being 'civil'._

__He was not a gentle man. He had never been coddled and rarely comforted. No one had ever expected him to offer either. Even when the prince was young, the Hound was a bodyguard, a swordhand. When the boy was injured or sick, no one expected his loyal dog to do anything about it.

Joffrey hadn't been his, no more than he was Robert Baratheon's.

But Sansa, daughter of Eddard Stark of Winterfell, who would have stood as queen over the Seven Kingdoms: she was his for true. He still had no idea why she'd want him, but she did. So he curled around her, shielding her with his body from any who would harm her, wishing he could give her the peace she'd wished for him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Note:**

**Thank you all for the lovely reviews! I'm so glad you're enjoying it! **

**I didn't put the typical disclaimer at the beginning, but of course, I am NOT GRRM, have no connection to him. These characters belong to him completely. Any names or snippets of dialogue used are by way of an homage, not an intended copyright infringement. I make no money from this work.**

**Also - through the end of this chapter, and perhaps a bit longer, this story is canon-compliant. That means that unless I've missed something or mistaken some timelines, it nestles into the great and glorious GRRM's epic. Since we're getting close to the end of the currently published works that correspond, I'll soon be taking some bigger leaps. In the case that they are completely opposed to what Martin writes, well, I hope they're at least entertaining. In the event that I call major plot points, I'll admit, I'll be delighted.**

**And so, back to the story!**

* * *

For the next few days, Sandor would make the trek past Winterfell's walls, watching and listening. He moved silently, hidden in his hooded cloak, a long scarf wrapped around his neck and throat. He made note of where each of the lords kept chambers, where their men squeezed into makeshift barracks among the ruins and rebuilt walls. Although the inn was supplied with an overabundance of supplies to last out a short winter, there was every indication that they were in for a rough one. Following Sansa's directions, he carted and moved some necessaries through the keep, creating a stockpile. He was never stopped, never questioned. There was too much treachery happening behind the walls for anyone to worry about a tall guard moving boxes and bags.

Only once did he see Ramsay Bolton. The man was deceptively still and cool, smiling in what he must have assumed was amiable camaraderie as his men enjoyed the feast of horseflesh the collapse of the stable had given them. To look at him, you'd think the young lord to be a pleasant man, beloved of his men. Standing in the shadows, Sandor's eyes became flinty as he watched the newly-legitimate lord move to take his seat. No one was fool enough to believe Ramsay a good and just man, rumors spread too quickly. But could no one else see him for what he truly was? Having spent his entire live in the shadow of a monster, Sandor knew a monster when he saw one. Although he mocked Sansa's love of stories, there was a truth there that he had long believed: monsters were to be slain. Even if Bolton defeated Stannis, it was doubtful whether Ramsay would survive his own lords. Should he manage to do so, Sandor would take matters into hand.

He had not known Eddard Stark by more than a passing acquaintance but Sansa had told him of her lord father. He would have sat where Ramsay now sat, would have invited a few of his people above the salt for an evening, to listen and to learn what they would tell him. Bolton was a mockery of Eddard Stark and for that too, Sandor wanted to open his throat.

At a throaty laugh, he flicked his gaze to the Bastard's Boys, clutching wine and women, taunting Theon Greyjoy. If Sansa had not told him more of Greyjoy the morning after their arrival, he would never have recognized the wreck standing across the room. He remembered the boy, but only as a name and a smirk that followed Robb Stark around the day the Young Wolf had fought with Joffrey. He watched the broken man bow and scrape, watched him hobble away, clutching his hands. Had he not known what Greyjoy had done, how he had betrayed not only his avowed king but the family that had raised him as a son rather than a hostage, he might have had sympathy for the smirking runt. One of Manderly's knights told him on the journey how Theon had let the younger Starks slip through his fingers and then provided proof of their charred, tarred bodies. Though not Sansa's brothers, those were children, and her true brothers had run from their home in terror. There was no pity left in his heart for Theon Turncloak from that moment on. The anger he felt when he saw that the Brotherhood held Arya was nothing compared to the constant boil he felt at her brothers' treatment.

He slipped out through a crumbling side entrance and pushed a drift of snow aside with the heavy door. There was more snow here than he'd ever seen before, nearly four feet of cold, wet, whiteness that crumbled when you trusted it to hold, held firm when you needed it moved, and with every minute, more fat flakes drifted down. Following one of the labyrinthine paths the men had made, Sandor set off for the Hunter's Gate and the inn. Suddenly, Theon appeared in the path ahead of him. He was hobbling, his eyes turned upwards to the falling snow. When the broken boy came face to face with him, Sandor was tempted to kill him and stuff his body sideways through the snow bank. His hand wrapped around the dagger at his hip. "Theon Turncloak. Theon Kinslayer," he growled.

"I'm not. I never … I was ironborn."

Even his voice sounded broken. As his mouth worked around the words, Sandor saw several teeth were missing. Miserable little shit. "False is all you were. How is it you still breathe?"

Theon pulled his left glove off and showed him the scabby, ragged place where he'd once had fingers. "Lord Ramsay is not done with me."

Sandor was wary at Theon's sudden sure movement. Animals are at their most dangerous when wounded, but as he turned to stare at the missing digits, he laughed. No one deserved to be at the mercy of a Bolton, but it seemed that this one had been broken in to the bit and would bear his rider. "I leave you to him, then."

He turned to watch as Greyjoy slid his glove back in place and went on his way, and was oddly grateful to his brother in that moment. Gregor had burned him, nearly killed him; doomed him to a life of sidelong looks, gap-mouthed stares, cruel names being hurled at him, and solitude. But he hadn't broken him as Bolton had done to this bloody cretin.

The gate was in sight now and he huffed in pleasure. His stores were hidden in an abandoned bedroom where Sansa swore there was a secret door to a tunnel through the walls. So far, he had been unable to find the entrance. Although he loathed the idea, he was going to have to bring her inside the walls to help him.

The next morning, he followed her through the inn to a back room used for storage, down a door in the floor and into a dirt tunnel. It was tall enough for him to stand upright, for which he was immensely thankful, although there was none too much clearance. Wooden beams supported the ceiling and walls of the passageway, the floor an uneven path of fieldstone. As they went, he lit cressets set into the walls, their flickering light casting tall, eerie shadows down the corridor ahead of them. It was warm underground, or at least, significantly warmer than it was out in the open air. As they neared the keep, the stones beneath their feet became smoother, the wood scorched dark. What seemed like a day after they'd set out, they reached the underground chamber where once the Stark girls had played Come-Into-My-Castle and other childhood games, back when their lives were so very much different. It was a round room, ancient grey stones covered with moss and dust, the ramshackle wooden furniture left where Sansa remembered.

"Where are we, little bird?"

"Under the First Keep. We have to go up a level to the ground floor and cross to the burnt tower to get to the other passage," she murmured, looking around at the room.

He grumbled. "Part of the wall's gone. We'll be exposed while we cross," he warned her.

She nodded and pulled her scarf tightly around her throat, patting her hood to make sure it still covered her well. The stairs were wide and short, making the trip up a quick one. When she led the way into daylight, he blinked in surprise. Instead of coming up through the floor as he'd anticipated, it was through a short series of sharp turns that ended in a lichen-covered door, hidden from view by ivy. He closed the door quietly behind him and joined her where she waited behind an outcropping of wall. They walked the perimeter of the keep, trying to remain inconspicuous and were nearly to the burned tower when a weary voice gave a quiet call. Sandor ignored it and walked a bit more until he heard footfalls behind them. Pretending to be oblivious, he pushed Sansa against the wall and leered, "This private enough for a quick fuck? I've been waiting all day!"

Sansa's eyes flew open but she allowed him to run his hands over her, kissing her face and neck without protest. "Ho there!" the guard called again, "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to get my cock wet. You mind?" Sandor snarled, turning the good side of his face toward the man who lazily approached.

The guard cast an appraising look over the huge man and the slight girl, covered in dirt and staring at the ground. "Get it wet? You're like to freeze it off, out here," the guard laughed.

"The wall blocks the wind," Sandor countered. "Everywhere else's got men stacked three deep."

Snorting, the guard nodded his agreement. "Well, it's your cock." He turned to leave, "You want a little extra coin, you come find me at the guard house in a couple hours, girl. I don't mind other men watching, so long's I get sucked."

They waited until the guard was out of sight before making their way around to the tower. "We'll walk through the castle," he said tightly. "Can't take the risk on him following us into the other passageway."

So they trudged to the keep, through the halls where for years, Sansa had floated dreamily. Sandor got looks, as he always did, but bundled up as he was, none recognized him or seemed overly curious, and no more than a passing glance was paid to the dirty girl that dogged his footsteps. Across the yard and through the door, up several flights of stairs they went before they reached the room.

As he barred the door behind them, Sansa released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and fell into a chair like a rag doll. She looked around the room, achingly familiar and yet, after so much time spent in the Red Keep and the Eyrie, it felt altogether foreign. It was Jon's old bedroom, smaller by far than the Sansa's room, half way across the keep. Too weary to stand, she let her eyes flit over the walls, looking for the tell-tale cranny that indicated a secret door.

Sandor dropped their things beside the bed unceremoniously and found a cup discarded on a side table and filled it from his wineskin. "I need to kill someone," he informed the room.

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter."

Sansa ignored him and set to unwinding her scarf. "Could I have some wine, please?"

He poured some into a second cup and set it at her elbow, gulping at the dregs of his own before refilling it. "You know how long it's been since I've killed a man?" he asked, pacing.

"No."

"Neither do I," he snorted. "Too damn long. There's a thousand men within these walls if there's twenty. I don't know what Manderly's playing at, but it can't last. Men get boxed in too tight, there's trouble. Hells, there's already trouble: men gone missing, some found dead. None by my hand, not yet."

She took a gulp of her wine and pushed herself from her chair, turning to look out of the window. When she sighed, continuing to ignore him, he grunted at her. "What? Remembered after all this time who I am? Disgusted to have a killer for a mate?"

"I have not forgotten," she told him. "Nor have I forgotten what you told me. That killing is the sweetest thing there is. And no, you do not disgust me."

"Why do you pout, then?"

She gave him a half-hearted glare. "I am not pouting. I was only thinking. After you left King's Landing, I hoped that you had found some peace."

"I didn't."

"I think you did," she told him loftily. "You are a wrathful man, but now you love too. It's gentled you some. I only wish you had a lighter heart."

He sighed and moved to stand behind her, rubbing her shoulders. "You think you've tamed the Hound?"

"Hardly," she smiled wryly. "If I have gladdened Sandor Clegane, I believe that would be good enough."

"Aye," he murmured. "You have, at that. Love has brought better men than me to their knees, though none so gladly."

They stood together, looking out over the yard for a long time. "Did you have any loves before me?" she asked quietly.

"No, girl. Never."

"Not even a childhood dalliance?" she wondered.

He took a moment to think before responding. "A dalliance isn't love, little bird. You know that. If you're asking if I've fucked other women, yes. I have loved no one but you."

She nodded and it seemed to him that she was neither surprised nor offended. "Were there many?"

"There are parts of my past that you would rather not hear about," he told her with cold assurance. "Not saying that you're not entitled to know, just that you'll be happier not. You grew up having your head filled with stories of courtly love and now you're bound to a brute. However much honor and respect you hold for me, I'd rather not lose a grain of it."

"I have a great regard for you. Nothing would change that. Would you love me less if you knew what terrible things I've done?"

"Terrible things?" he scoffed, "You are barely a woman grown. I've been doing terrible things since a few years before you were born."

"Did you know that it was me who told the queen of my father's plans to leave King's Landing?" she asked tightly.

"Why?"

"I couldn't bear the thought of being separated from Joffrey," she shuddered. "I am responsible for my father's death, and all that has happened since. I may be young, but that's closer to kinslaying than most people come."

He sat in the chair she'd abandoned and pulled her down to his lap. "You are not responsible for Eddard Stark's death," he told her firmly. "Not even the queen bears that. She meant to send him to the Wall. His death you can set squarely at the little shit's feet. You understand me?"

When she didn't respond, he took her chin in hand and held her tightly. "Have you learned nothing? If Cersei Lannister wanted your father gone, gone he would have been. You are not his executioner."

"And you love me no less for having been the one to inform her?"

"No."

She sighed in relief and blinked away a tear. Nodding, she said, "Good. And I'm sure your sins are darker and your scars deeper, but I would know them."

"You cannot unhear these things," he growled at her, scowling more fiercely than he ever had.

"No more than you can undo them. I want to know."

He closed his eyes and reached blindly for the remainder of her wine to steady himself. After a long moment, he cleared his throat and met her eyes. "I've killed more men than you've met," he started. "Women, too. At least one child. Killed villains and thieves and innocents alike."

When he didn't continue, she squeezed his hand. "All this I knew. You are a warrior. What of … women?"

He squirmed under her frank appraisal. "Never kept count, but I'd guess I've fucked about a dozen women. Whores. Those who could bear looking at me for enough coin. As desperate as people get, they keep some high standards," he sneered bitterly. "The last one, she was one of Baelish's girls, she was the only one worth a damn."

"How so?" her head tilted like a bird's, curious and almost impartial.

He grumbled uncomfortably. "The others … my blood was up, they were there, and they'd take my coin. The last, well, it was right after I'd won the tourney. Wanted to feel like I'd gotten my money's worth. She was still disgusted by me. But she was sweet. Showed me … this is pretty bleeding embarrassing, little bird, I'll have you know that. She showed me the depths of what a fuck could be. Always before, I'd gotten a look, a feel, and taken my pleasure. They didn't want more, I didn't know what else to give."

Knowing he was ashamed to admit these things, Sansa smiled and stroked his arm. "I ought to send her a note of thanks," she said saucily. He grunted a laugh. "Saw her a couple of nights before the Blackwater, that was the last. She was the last."

"No grateful maidens saved from vicious bandits, then?" she asked, half kidding.

His face grew tight and solemn. "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to," she told him, placing her hand on his chest.

"You've given me your secrets," he murmured. "And there's no one else I would tell. But know, Sansa: I am not proud of this. I regret this. Did the Imp ever tell you about his first wife?"

"Only that there had been one, no more. Lady Silverfist."

"No, she was no lady. She was some whore that the Kingslayer hired to make a man of his brother. Dumb little fuck fell in love with her, married her. When Lord Tywin found out, he had her dragged to the courtyard. Said no Lannister would have married a whore and had the marriage annulled. But he said she ought to be compensated. So he commanded every man in his garrison to fuck her and pay a silver for the privilege. Tyrion was the last to take her and he paid a gold, being a Lannister. Every man took his turn," he caught her eye. "Every man."

It took him a moment to collect himself, his jaw clenched tight. "I was six and ten. Never had a woman. I did what I was told to do. I don't know how many went before me but when it came my turn, she wasn't crying, didn't say anything, just stared up at the sky like she couldn't see the men around her. Later that night, my fucking brother told me the truth. She was no whore. Just some poor peasant girl who fell in love with the wrong little lordling. But we made her into a whore that day. This girl," he ground out, "…there were over sixty of us … well, you saw what happened to Lollys Stokeworth. I don't know what happened to Tyrion's girl. I hope for her sake someone slit her throat. And I hope it wasn't Gregor."

He was unwilling to look at the girl perched on his lap, another creature of perfect innocence that he'd despoiled. _I shouldn't have told her, should have just stopped. If she ever lets me touch her again, I may start believing in the gods._

When he felt her hand brush his face, he wept. Never, in his adult life, had he wept but when he was with her. She pressed his head to her chest, resting her chin on him, and wrapped her arms tight around him. It was ridiculous, an innocent young girl barely out of maidenhood, to be comforting a marauder. He knew that. Still, he clung to her like she could leech away all the guilt and anger that had festered in him all these years.

And she did. He realized that, now. This was why she was goading, pushing him into sharing with her. There was nothing that could wash him clean of his life, but Sansa took the poison out of the old wounds and didn't care about the scars left behind.

They sat for a long while, holding each other, comforting with their presence. After a moment more, she slid free of his embrace and stood before him, waiting for him to look at her. When he was able to drag his eyes up to hers, he could have wept again. It was at that moment that he finally believed that she loved him. Her face was etched with sorrow and pity, her eyes full of forgiveness and acceptance. It was her smile, though, that cracked through him. It was an easy, familiar smile: there was no grace intended, no posturing. It came to her as easily as breathing, and it was for him.

"It's a hard world," she murmured. "There's no place in it for true knights and fainting maidens. But we are together. And gods pity the man who tries to part us."

"For he'll get none from me," Sandor growled back.

He blinked in surprise as she made a quick, awkward lunge. The dagger he'd given her was in her hand, tip pointed at his chest. She needed to be faster than that if she truly meant to stop an attack, but he bared his teeth in a grin.

"The Lord and Lady Clegane are not to be trifled with," she warned an invisible host.

"I'm sure I've heard that said," he agreed.

She slid the dagger back into the hidden slit of her dress, carefully sheathing it. "Do we have House Words?"

"No. Not been a House long enough."

She reattached her veil then took his hand and pulled him until he stood. "We do now," she stated with a finality. "The Hound and the Direwolf of House Clegane: Beware Our Bite!"

In many ways, he reflected, she was still a young girl. But by god, she was his.

"Beware Our Bite!" he agreed, sinking his teeth into the flesh of her neck.


	9. Chapter 9

In the following days, Sansa kept to their room as much as she could. They finished moving the stores that Sandor had squirreled away, stowing them in the basement of the inn. With each trip into Winterfell, Sansa grew more assured and yet, more wary. Fear of being recognized was all but forgotten. Sandor was right to say that so many people crowded together would bring trouble: there had been murders, she wasn't sure how many. So far, it seemed to be all soldiers. But the tense feeling had turned brittle and sharp, everyone could feel it. The gates had been barred and no one was allowed in or out but with Lord Bolton's leave. Everyone was waiting for something, though no one could say what. And still the snow continued to fall.

It took both of them by surprise: Sansa had never been alive for a true winter and Sandor had never been so far north during one. The snow fell heavy and wet, turning the world into a mass of grey and white. It was a bleak and miserable world, made all the worse by the haunting sound of a woman crying. Sansa longed to go to Jeyne and comfort her, to help her escape from Ramsay Bolton as Sandor had once helped her; but she couldn't. As though in counterpoint to the wailing woman in the tower, warhorns sounded night and day. Sansa hadn't seen the host outside Winterfell's gates, but Sandor had scouted during one of his trips and brought back news: a contingent of men bearing the Umber giant camped to the west of the keep. Days later, they split and shifted their camp, tormenting the south. In the past few days they rejoined and harried the northern wall, their trumpets blowing in an irregular pattern night and day.

It was hard to know whether the Umbers' presence should comfort her, but somehow it did. She stood, listening to the faint wail in the wind, leaning against the broken wall of the First Keep. There was a gargoyle grinning down from above her and she smiled back at it, remembering how Bran would climb and clamber over the stones. She was meant to be keeping watch while Sandor sent the last crates of supplies down the stone stairs with ropes. Dawn was coming, although it was nearly impossible to tell. The clouds would not part, no matter the time of day, and the snow continued to grow.

Suddenly, there was grip on her elbow that sent sharp pains shooting along her arm. "My lord," she whispered, "you're hurting me."

Instead of Sandor's gruff apology or snarled retort, a young boy's voice sneered, " 'My lord', is it? What lord's been slinking around with a scullery maid?"

Sansa turned to find a broad, greasy youth at her side. Before she could speak, he twisted his grip on her elbow and she twitched in pain. "Am I hurting you?" he asked in a mocking sweet voice.

"Yes! Release me!" she ordered. Although the boy couldn't be older than ten, he was nearly as tall as she was and had a grip like iron. He sneered, his face twisting into an ugly, cruel smile.

"Do you find my grip strong?" he pressed, pushing her back to the wall. "Lord Ramsay says a man needs strong hands if he wants to be powerful. I've been practicing. Squeezing rocks."

She pulled, twisting to free herself but he only increased the pressure of his grip. Gasping, she bent over to protect her elbow. When she tried to peel his fingers off, he slapped her across the face.

"I've been practicing that too. But I'm better at this," he boasted, digging his thumb into her. "I can snap a cat's neck with one hand now!"

She gasped, horrified, but stilled. "Won't you let me go? I'm certainly no match for you," she asked politely, hoping to stroke his ego.

Without a word, he bent and picked her up over his shoulder. As tall as she was, it was an awkward carry, but he managed to start out across the yard. "Lord Ramsay will want a hunt soon," he told her. "He promised that I could ride out with him next time. Maybe he'll even let me have you, after he's done. Have to put you in the dungeons until he deals with Stannis, though."

Squirming as she was, he didn't notice when her hand slid between her skirts. The dagger caught him between the buttock and the bottom of the ribs. He stumbled and she fell to her feet, swinging wildly. Her second stroke caught his throat and cut so deep she thought she could see the bones of his neck.

She watched as he bled out within seconds, the snow under him turning a sickly crimson. She might have stayed there for eternity, rooted to the spot, had Sandor not stomped out to find her. His big hand turned her chin toward him. "Where are you hurt?" he demanded quietly.

Sansa shook her head and gestured with the dagger to the body on the ground. "It's all his?" he pressed. When she nodded, he took the blade from her hand, digging it in the boy's neck once again, and then threw it down the path. As he'd hoped, it left droplets of blood and gore as it flew, leaving an obvious trail for anyone who cared to follow it. He rubbed his hand on the boy's tunic before pulling the bottom of Sansa's gown up to pat her own arm dry. "Don't want to leave any signs," he muttered in explanation. "Snow'll cover our steps quick enough."

Once he was sure she wouldn't drip blood, he led the silent girl back to the keep, backtracking and confusing their trail to be safe before barring the ivy-covered door behind them. Down they went, through the circular room and into the tunnel. When he figured they were about halfway back to the inn, he pulled her to him and stared at her, waiting.

Although she followed where he led, her eyes were glazed over, her lips a tight line across her face. "You going to be sick?" he asked sympathetically. "Many are the first time they kill."

She shook her head and seemed to notice for the first time that they were in the tunnel. "What happened?" he demanded gently, shaking her slightly when she didn't respond.

She blinked slowly and sucked in a deep breath. "He was hurting me. He was going to take me to Ramsay Bolton for a hunt."

Sandor grunted as his gorge rose. "You did right, to kill him."

He knew what to expect. He'd seen many a squire or common boy kill for the first time, even a few women who had taken up arms to protect themselves or their homes. They vomited, cried, or threw themselves into the fray with a new confidence.

But here she stood: his little bird, the girl who could recite any romantic story ever written on command, who believed in honor and love above all things. She was quiet, and distant, but she was on her feet.

"Do you know who that was?" she asked. "That boy I murdered?"

"Some Frey. Snow's squire."

"He said he was practicing his grip. That he could snap a cat's neck with one hand."

"Gods. Well, that one eats from his master's plate, that's for fucking sure," he rubbed his hand over his face. "Well? Are you alright?"

She nodded solemnly. "He was a little boy," she said slowly, "but he was dangerous."

"Yes," he agreed. "And he's the spawn of one of the fucking traitorous cunts that killed your brother and mother."

"Oh," she said thoughtfully.

"Blood was owed for your side, make no mistake. And don't call it a murder. You killed him because he would have hurt you, that's not murder."

She was quiet a while longer before taking a deep breath and sighing. "He will haunt my dreams tonight," she confided.

"Yes," he admitted. "Maybe for a long time yet."

"He deserves tonight, at least," she muttered. "I want his blood off my skin. Can I have a bath?"

He nodded and pulled her along side him as they walked back to the inn together. She shook in his arms, but never shed a tear, nor turned green.

"Would it displease you for me to say I admire the kill?" he asked, teasing her gently. "It was a quick death."

She looked at him askance. "I ripped his throat out. Quick, perhaps. But brutal."

"Like a wolf."

"Yes," she said, smiling faintly for the first time. "I suppose so."

Once they were back in their room and hot water had been ordered, she stripped down, pushing the bloodied clothes into a pile to deal with later. It was then, as she settled herself in the steaming water, that she cried.

"I feel horrible," she told him later as he wiped the blood from her face with a wet rag. "It was a terrible moment that I wished undone the moment it was done."

He grunted and continued to bathe her.

"Would you have killed him, had you gotten there before I got my knife?" she asked, cocking her head to one side to look at him.

"Without a second thought."

"I am having lots of second thoughts," she confessed.

"It's done," he told her firmly. "You can repent, you can regret, but you cannot undo. So don't let it simmer. He was a rabid little ferret."

She dragged her fingers through the water, watching the tiny waves rush to fill the furrows her fingers left behind. " 'This world is made by killers'," she quoted.

"I'll find you a new dagger," he said, uncertain what she needed.

But she smiled and murmured her assent and when he was done bathing her, they curled up together on the bed, waiting for the dreams to come.


	10. Chapter 10

Hello everyone! Sorry for the delay, but I was unhappy with the road I'd set out on and I went back to unravel everything and start over.

Minor squick warning: Menstruation referred in this chapter.

* * *

She woke hours later and slid from the covers to make water behind a screen. When she had finished, she ran a brush through her hair and stood at the window, watching the white drifts shift in the wind. Her attention was caught by movement on the battlements. There was a commotion going on at the keep, although she could barely see well enough to tell there was movement, let alone discern its meaning. Keeping her eyes on the window, she scooted sideways and shook Sandor gently.

He grunted and grabbed her wrist to pull her back to bed, but she whispered his name and prodded him in the back. "Woman!" he muttered sleepily. "Leave me be. Come back to bed."

"Wake up!" she insisted. "Something's happening! I think there's a fight."

His eyes flew open and he was on his feet reaching for a weapon before she could breathe. "Not here," she clarified. "Winterfell. Come see."

He stood naked before the window, squinting to make out what was happening through the distorted glass. "Can't see a bloody thing."

"Wait. There! Someone's on the high walk!"

He leaned forward, his nose nearly against the glass. All he could see was snow and stone. "Someone fell!" she exclaimed, grasping his hand.

"Who?"

"I don't know. I think they're alive though, they landed in the high drift."

He snorted and left her side, pulling on wool leggings and his breeches before searching for his shirt. "I'll see what the thinking is in the village," he told her, rubbing sleep from his eyes and mouth. "Might be somebody saw better than you could."

"Please don't go," she implored, her eyes perfectly round as she reached for him.

"Why not? You woke me to see a fight. I can't see a damned thing from here."

She glanced back to the window. There was no more movement, none that she could see anyway. "The news will spread," she reasoned, "It will reach the inn by midday."

"Not if no one goes to see what happened," he countered. "It could have been a dead watchman who fell, it could have been Stannis. It would be wise to know which."

"The army isn't moving. If it was a battle, surely they'd be attacking. If not, the men who aren't on watch today will come by later, you can talk to them then."

"Words are wind," he said, looking around for his boots. "Better to know with my eyes than to believe with my ears."

There was no discernable danger, no looming threat or foe, but for some reason, Sansa couldn't bear the thought of him leaving. Something held her back, made her cautious and patient. He was set on going now. Although she trusted his instincts and would allow him to go if he felt he ought to, she had a feeling that a good part of his insistence was irritation at being woken up.

Clearing her throat to get his attention, she waited until his eyes settled on her before releasing her hold on the cloak wrapped around her. It fell to the floor with a dull thump and she resisted the urge to wrap her arms around her body to ward off the sudden cold. Sandor too seemed frozen, holding a boot in one hand and a scabbard in the other. Their room was drafty. A slight current lifted a strand of her hair to send it floating across her breasts where her nipples were hard and puckered.

"If you feel it imperative to go, my lord, do please. If not…," she paused, letting him understand the decision was his, even if she had loaded the dice. "… perhaps we could wait for news together?"

The firelight sent shadows dancing across his face, the spark in his eye and heavy breathing belying the stubborn furrow of intent across his forehead. He dropped the boot and set the scabbard aside before pulling off his shirt and unlacing his breeches once again. He moved toward her slowly, quietly.

It reminded her of the way Lady had hunted: seeking, slinking, waiting. Thinking to tease him further, she leaned down to retrieve the cloak and before she could right herself, he stood before her and hoisted her over his shoulder as he had done, long ago. She gasped at the suddenness and at the feeling of their bare skin touching, rubbing her hands down his back. Without warning, she was on the bed, not so much set down as heaved.

Although they had been married for some time now, she was still nervous and unsure of herself in many ways. The tension between them now was exhilarating and smoldering. She thought back to her nighttime gossiping with Randa and the older woman's stories of her exploits. Randa's favorite litany came to mind as she watched the brawny man towering over her: "A man is no different from a horse. Sometimes he needs coddling and brushing and sugar lumps, other times he needs spurs in his sides and mud on his hooves. The trick is to know your mount and play along."

Hoping she sounded seductive and enchanting, she kept her eyes on the big man but rubbed her hands forward on the bed, stretching like a cat. "Is this what it's like, on a hunt?" she asked throatily. "The prey is sighted, men watch and wait?"

He lurched forward, sliding onto the bed behind her and holding her hands down to the mattress. "No, little bird. The prey is scented, then dogs give chase."

His breath was hot in her ear and she shivered in expectation, pulling tentatively against his heavy grip on her hands. He tightened his grip in response and pressed himself to her, letting his weight and his size overwhelm her. "Don't you know what dogs do to wolves?" he growled against her neck.

"Tell me," she murmured.

He grinned, murmured, "They rip them apart," and sank his teeth into the side of her throat.

As she mewled and arched into him, he braced his weight on his strong leg and used the weak one to nudge her knees apart. "And what," Sansa panted heavily, "do dogs do to direwolves?"

He didn't answer immediately and when she felt him reaching for her mound to line himself up, she dipped her hips away from him, supporting herself awkwardly on her elbows. His frustrated growl made her giggle lustily. "And what of direwolves?" she asked him again.

"Direwolves?" he panted. "Direwolves they fuck. They mount them and fuck them. Because the direwolf can take it, she wants it."

"Needs it!" she groaned in agreement.

With that, he released one of her hands to grab her hip and snap it back to him, growling possessively as she giggled again and rolled her ass against him. It was a new position for her and was strangely exciting. Many times before had she lain with him propped above her but on her knees as she was, he let more of his weight rest against her. He was heavy, but it was a seductive, pleasing heaviness.

It startled her when he pushed in to her, the angle new and the pressure completely different. She gasped and clenched, then rocked backwards, trying to get him to start his 'mounting', as he'd called it. He obliged, but stopped to adjust his stance, tucking his hips up into her with each thrust. Using her hip to center himself and to stop her from slipping away from him as he pounded into her, his fingers dug deep into her flesh and he knew she'd be bruised. Although he felt some remorse for hurting her, the idea of leaving marks to claim her stoked something in him and he bit down on her shoulder, licking away the salt of her sweat.

She was amazed again at how dearly she loved being indecent. As a young lady, she had been told what happened in a marriage bed, or rather, what her responsibilities where therein. As a young woman, she came to understand the concept of men's lust and desire, suffered Theon's deplorable stories of conquest, and seen her brothers' longing glances at some of the prettier maids and servants. When she asked Septa Mordane for a better understanding of this new world, she was given a lecture on using modesty as her armor, restraint and cordiality her weapons. The great ladies in the stories were always chaste and pure, the knights honorable and kind. Sandor Clegane had been right all along - there were no true knights, life was not a song. And for that, she thanked the gods.

Here now, in bed with a renowned campaigner, she moaned and keened and grunted as no storybook lady could ever conceive of doing. Sweating, panting, thrusting, she took her pleasure as her man took his. It was only minutes later that he climaxed, the front of his thighs pressed to the back of hers, his hips straining to mold themselves to her. He shuddered and moaned, thrusting a few last times before his vise grip relaxed, slowly running his hands along her sides like a horse that needed calming after a hard ride.

When she whimpered at his hand's gentle brush over a nipple, he grasped her breast and held her against him as he lay back against the bed. "Fell without you, little bird," he murmured, using his freed hand to slide down and tease the hair of her womanhood. "Was I too rough?"

"No," she moaned, "I … I was almost - AH!"

Her moan was a lilting wail, her body clenched and seized as he rubbed her in tight, fast circles. She twitched against his fingers as they slowed and she pushed his hand away gently. "Oh," she breathed out in a shuddery sigh. "Why have you never taken me like that before?"

His chuckle ruffled her hair and he patted her hip happily. "Opportunity never presented itself. Or perhaps I should say that you never presented yourself like a bitch in heat."

"You've called me that before," she reminded him. "Why is it that you think I must be in heat but you are in a constant state of readiness?"

"That's the way of it," he laughed. "A man wants constantly. Women are taken by the mood."

"Truly?" she smirked incredulously. "Have you ever found me not wanting?"

He sighed happily and patted her hip. "I'm a lucky bugger."

It was hours later when Sansa woke, alone but wrapped up tightly in their linens and bed furs. Although their morning exertions were pleasantly tiring, she was exhausted beyond belief. She had almost decided to simply go back to sleep when she glanced over at a side table where a trencher sat steaming. It must have been the maid's leaving that woke me, she reflected, sliding wearily from the covers to retrieve her lunch. The stew was thick and pungent, a slick oil sheen covering the meat and potatoes. Sansa took two bites and set it aside, nauseous. It took only moments for her to bring it back up, barely making it to a chamber pot as she vomited twice. Too tired to stand for the moment, she slumped against the wall, pushing the soiled pot as far away as she could. She must have slept, for when she was woken by a sudden pain, the candle marking the hours had shrunk. Glancing down, she gasped. Blood had seeped through her undergarments and her bed gown, staining the fabric caught between her thighs a vibrant, dangerous red. Although she had acclimated quickly to this new life of self-reliance, there were days she dearly missed having ladies maids. Pulling herself upright, she stripped off the stained clothes and used them to sit on while she cleaned herself of the sticky blood. The task shouldn't have taken nearly as long as it did, but she was still exhausted. Finally, she pulled on clean clothing, careful to secure a rag in her small clothes, and went back to bed.

The overwhelming fatigue was enough to slow her, weigh her down, but the unpredictable stabbing pains through her abdomen were worse. She had only just made it to the foot of the bed when Sandor returned. He stared at her, his forehead creasing in worry and his eyes sharp. "Are you hurt?" he asked, glancing at the pile of blood-stained clothing on the chair.

"No," she muttered, clutching the bedpost. "I have my moon blood. It makes me sickly."

She watched as he walked to the chair where she'd sat and picked up her clothing, frowning at the large stain, already starting to turn brown in the air, and deposited them on the pile of the clothes still covered in the Frey boy's blood.

"I have not been with you during a moonblood," he said quietly. "Is it always so … profuse?"

Shaking her head, she sat on the edge of the bed. "Each is different. I do not get them as regularly as I should. The maester at the Eyrie said it happens that way, for some women, while some are as regular as the moon. My aunt Lysa suffered similarly."

"Your aunt Lysa had quite a bit wrong with her," he snorted. "No surprise there."

She whimpered with a sudden pain and winced, pressing her hand against her lower belly. He moved to sit beside her, stroking her hair as gently as he knew how.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut as her muscles cramped fiercely.

"Sorry?" he growled. "I thought you'd given up your empty courtesies. What are you sorry for?"

Swallowing heavily to work past the nausea, she opened her eyes to find him staring down at her fixedly. "It is a woman's trouble," she offered. "Men are disgusted by it."

He snorted but didn't look away. He didn't look disgusted. Discomfited, maybe, but not disgusted. "I've never known a woman on her flow, or at least never known when one was. Except your first, of course, everyone knew then. Nearly burned the Red Keep to the ground," he teased her. "I've seen a lot of blood in my life, bird. Shed a lot. I'm not afraid of it."

She smiled at him as sweetly as she was able, relieved that he wasn't disgusted, relieved that she wouldn't be left alone to manage by herself when she could barely walk. "I was sick," she told him, glancing at the chamber pot in the far corner.

"I'll have it cleaned," he assured her, still staring at the pale girl leaning against him. "Are you certain you're alright?"

Although she loathed to do so, she shook her head. If she had the blood to spare, she would have blushed fiercely. "I have never bled so much."

He nodded and lifted her into bed, tucking the blankets around her and kissing her gently. "Stay here."

Whether it was minutes or hours later, she wasn't certain, but Sandor's return woke her again. He ushered in a young woman before he shut the door behind them, glancing over to where Sansa lay.

The girl had the look of a barmaid, an apron tied loosely around her waist and her hair in a long plait down her back. She was short with a thick body but a pinched, tired face and stood with her hands planted on her narrow hips, watching Sandor warily as he moved. "You know me?" he asked, keeping her attention on him as long as he could.

"Yes, milord," although her stance and expression were stalwart, her voice belied her nervousness. "You were with the king's party when he were here. The Hound."

"What else?"

"Heard you was pillaging and raping at the Saltpans when I first came back to the 'Log, then I heard it were someone else."

"I was nowhere near the damned Saltpans, but that doesn't mean I'm not a vicious dog, you understand?"

She nodded, waiting.

"Innkeep said you might be able to help my wife with some lady troubles," he said, trying to remain calm.

"My mother was a healer, taught me some."

"A woods witch?" he asked, snorting when she wrinkled her nose.

"We just say healer. Never claimed no magic, just knew how to heal," she corrected with the air of one who has fought a battle many times over.

He grunted in acceptance and gestured toward Sansa with a jerk of his head. "She's got her moonblood, seems near to draining her."

It was only then that the tavern wench and apprentice healer looked over to the bed. Seeing her patient pale against the pillows, blue eyes dull with pain, the girl gasped and took a few steps toward the bed. "Lady Stark!" she whispered, her mouth agape.

"Yes," Sansa replied sleepily. "Lady Clegane now."

To her credit, the wench didn't look askance or doubtful, just nodded and moved to sit beside her charge. "I'm Bessa," she murmured. "You mightn't remember me, don't know as we ever met proper. Met your father once though, he was a good man. I am sorry for your loss. All of them."

"Thank you, Bessa."

"What's ailing you?" Bessa's eyes swept over Sansa, taking inventory of symptoms.

"My moonblood, it's so heavy. I'm so tired and weak."

Bessa nodded, pressing her hand to Sansa's face. "Never been so heavy? Where's the pain?" she continued when Sansa grimaced and twitched. "Had that before?"

While they spoke for a few minutes more, Sandor faded back into a shadow to watch. He was worried but didn't find the situation nearly so horrifying as some men made it out to be. Soon enough, Bessa stood from the bed and turned to find him.

"She's young yet. Some women settle into their ways like wheels into a rut, some never have one month like the next. My sister had pain like this. I'll get you a rock to heat over the fire. Wrap it in linen when it's hot and put it on her belly and I'll make her some anise tea, that'll help a bit. And you've got to make her eat, 'specially meat. She'll be alright."

Glancing over to make sure Sansa couldn't hear, he murmured, "That's all, then? It wasn't … a child? A lost child?"

Seeing the hulking warrior like this, worried eyes cast over to his wife and hand absently clenching and unclenching nervously, her heart softened to him. "No," she reassured him. "She says the pain is normal. There's a lot of blood, but … just blood. Nothing else."

"And it's nothing I did?" he pressed, quickly clarifying, "Didn't hit her or anything. Just … more than she could take?"

She cocked an eyebrow and smirked at him. "Oh, I'm sure milord Hound is quite the beast, but this is none of your doing. She'll be fine in a few days."

He sighed in relief, shook his head to clear it, and turned to glare at her. "My thanks for your help. If I hear one whisper of her name on any man's lips, I'll kill you."

She smiled sweetly. "They'll not have heard it from me, milord. The Starks did right by me and mine for many years, I'd not give up the girl."

She nearly reached out to pat him as she left, but restrained herself. No matter how he might love his woman, he was still the Hound. But she brought the promised tea along with venison, and helped the lady bathe herself while the Hound went sniffing around for more information about the goings on at the castle.

It wasn't until the next morning that Sansa got a full report, over a day since she saw two shapes fall from the battlements. She woke feeling better and brighter, though not much stronger to discover Sandor wrapped around her, his large hands pressed across the front of her hips, their heat radiating in waves through her.

He insisted that she eat when he woke, and disappeared to return with enough food to feed a guard unit. She ate what she could while he told her what he'd learned.

"It's said that Greyjoy kidnapped the bride and pushed her from the battlements. Followed her over rather than risk being retaken," he said, ripping through a thick heel of bread. "The little shit may have done something right, for once. They made it to Crowfood's men, he sent them on to the Wall. When you're better, I'll go back to the keep and find Manderly, see how the dice fell for him."

"I still cannot believe all that Theon has done," Sansa murmured.

"The world is full of shit, we can't all of us stay pure," he shrugged. "Seems Snow has been working him over."

"Jon?" Sansa frowned.

"What?"

"What did Jon do to Theon?" she asked, confused.

"Who in the … oh, the bastard. No, not Jon Snow. Ramsay Snow," he clarified. "Some Lannister sent a note of legitimacy, but he's been Snow so long, it's hard to remember."

"Oh. I've never met him, Ramsay that is."

He snorted. "Pray you never do. Gods, from what I hear, he makes the little blond shit look like Baelor the Blessed. Had he married the real Arya Stark, they'd have found him dead long before Theon Turncloak would have stirred himself to help her."

She wrinkled her nose and looked across the room to the window. "I suppose I should be glad that my sister is so hardened. I wish I had her strength."

"You have strength enough, girl," he assured her, pulling her back to lean against him. "She's wild, is all. A slash with a sharp blade will cut most anyone. But a sword that has been burned and quenched and hammered again and again, that is strength."

She wriggled and cooed, pleased with his assessment. "I had a dream last night," she told him confidentially. "But you'll only laugh at me."

"Very possible."

She sighed in annoyance but continued all the same. "I dreamt that I stood on the steps of the Great Hall in a beautiful dress. Everyone I'd ever met was there, and many strange men. They cheered for me, loved me. And I told them that they might stay, if they would help to set Winterfell to rights again. Everyone did what I asked, except … well, except for those who would never have listened, let alone obeyed. Joffrey and his mother, Olenna Tyrell, others. But from nowhere, you stood beside me and as they came at me, you killed them. And everyone cheered for you."

"Hmph. Dreams are wants, fragile as spun sugar."

She shrugged and pressed her head to his chest. "I was just pleased to have happy dream," she murmured.


	11. Chapter 11

It was two more days before he was willing to leave her, and even then, his parting was reluctant. But, as Sansa pointed out, she was now able to move about and was suffering very little pain. Bessa brought her anything she needed and would keep her company until the inn began to fill for the evening meal when she would have to excuse herself. As much as she loved Sandor, it was wonderful to talk to a girl for awhile, especially one near her age.

While the girls spent their day chatting and mending a few items, Sandor strode down the long corridor to the keep, thankful once again for the shelter from the elements. Had he tried to make the walk aboveground, it would have taken all day. He moved slowly once he reached the first keep, conscious of every drip, every gust of air. After Greyjoy's escape, the keep had to be sealed up tight, there was no longer any hope of moving nonchalantly through the halls.

The first men he came upon were twitchy and clutched their spears tightly to challenge him as he made his way across the courtyard.

"Who are you?" the taller one demanded. "Who's your lord?"

Sandor walked past them without stopping until he felt a prod in his back. He turned to find the shorter guard still holding the blunt end of the spear at him. "Answer!" he demanded. In truth, he was no more than a green boy, probably not much older than Sansa.

A breeze kicked up again and caught the edge of his questioner's cloak, blowing it back enough the see the tail of a merman. Rather than start a fuss over whether it was any of their damn business to accost him, he growled in displeasure and spat, "Don't you know me? I'm a sword for Lord Manderly. I rode up the river in his barge, you little shit. So don't be poking be with a spear, blunt end or otherwise."

The two guards exchanged looks, then turned to take him in: taller than either of them by at least a foot, obviously more experienced, and with a hand resting purposefully on the pommel of his sword. After a moment, the taller guard said, "Go ahead, ser."

He was stopped twice more, but eventually made it to Manderly's rooms. Once admitted, he found the fat Lord Lamprey propped up on cushions, his necked bandaged and braced. Looking around, every man in the room was armed, every one practically quivering with tension.

"What the fuck happened to you?" he asked Manderly, glaring at the bandage around the fat man's neck.

A burble erupted from Manderly's lips, which Sandor took to be a laugh. "The Freys happened," he replied in a good-natured croak. "Might be I provoked the attack. I'm an old fool."

"So how stands the state? Seems terribly twitchy, haven't seen nearly as many men as I'd thought to."

"Hmph!" snorted one of Manderly's knights. "Bolton's sent a force to meet Stannis. All of them men of ours or Freys. It'll be a wonder if a single one makes it alive to meet the man."

"And when they do?"

The oldest of Manderly's men tsked. "Our men will fight for Stannis. Their commander knows our lord's mind in this and will obey. The Freys … the only thing you can be sure of with a Frey is that he will turn. Whether that will be a turn for Stannis or simply a turn for home, it is yet to be seen."

"The Bastard left yesterday morning, with his boys and his dogs, to hunt down his bride," another man offered.

Sneering in distaste, Sandor clenched his fist. "All the better. One flayer at our backs is more than enough. Manderly, the time is now."

Quiet descended as the White Harbor men waited for their lord's response. "My forces are diminished," Manderly reminded him. "The prudent course would be to wait for Stannis to arrive."

Through the years the Hound spent at court, he heard many plots, plans, and schemes hatched, saw some come to fruition and many more fail. With every new play the nobles set out, he was thankful he needn't give a shit about their game. That time was past. This was no court intrigue or base killing, this was the land, love, and future of Sansa Stark. Part of him wished again that he had better, sweeter words to say what needed said, but it wasn't in him.

"I piss on your prudence," Sandor growled. "Your forces are diminished but there are a thousand other men in this keep, none of whom love Bolton. The Hornwoods, the Cerwyns, the Umbers, the Lockes … they follow because they have been told to. The lady Dustin holds no love for the Starks, but she has a fucking head on her shoulders and she knows how the dice will fall. You have the strength, you fat fuck. If you are too weak to carry out your own plan, say so. Waiting for Stannis will only waste time. And if Winterfell is held by Bolton when he arrives, it will burn."

Throughout his speech, Manderly's men had drawn their weapons and circled protectively around their liege. Sandor ignored the steel and glared at Manderly, waiting for his nod.

"Words are wind," the man said finally, waving down his defenders. "And they fly as such. If we mean to take the keep, we must do so decisively and quickly. I admit, my initial plan has gone somewhat askew. We have no Rickon Stark, we are short on men, and we are running out of time."

"We have Sansa Stark, we have more men than you brought with you and are light on Freys," the old knight offered thoughtfully.

Sandor pulled a hastily drawn map from his sleeve and handed it to Manderly. "You still have a hundred men outside the walls. Crowfood Umber has as many, though they're hardly men yet."

"Crowfood brought the boys and Whoresbane brought the elderly," Manderly quipped. "Neither love me overmuch."

"Manderly, is your head filled with fat? You are not calling their banners. A Stark has returned to Winterfell. They will answer."

"Two hundred without," the old knight said, scratching his chin. "Perhaps seven hundred that can be relied upon within. All against two hundred plus Bolton. If loyalty falls where it should, this will work, my lord. The question is, how to spread the word without Bolton learning. And how to bring our forces inside the gates."

"You open them," he replied sardonically.

The knight gave him a withering look. "Surely you can request an audience with Bolton and the other lords?" Sandor continued. "Gather the highborn, you tell them all your prayers have been answered and Sansa Stark is returned to you. She has no desire to be queen in the north, only the lady of Winterfell and she will make peace with Stannis for the good of the realm and that she calls upon them to bend the knee alongside her. While that transpires, have a trusted regiment open the Hunter's Gate to admit the Mors Umber and his boys. Let them sit on their asses in the Godswood until lead the lords to break their fast with the men. Announce it in front of the whole company and welcome in Crowfood's men as well."

"And after that?" Manderly pressed. "We do not have the stores to feed Umber's men, let alone Stannis's horde that will come stumbling in."

"I remind you again, Manderly, that this is your scheme. I'm only working with what you set out," he said through clenched teeth.

"Thank you, Clegane, yes. But what to do with the extra men?"

It struck everyone in the room then that the man before them was still The Hound. He had been named for his loyalty, his single-minded devotion. But the growl of his voice was deeper than that of any dog and his bite much worse.

"If you worry about provisions, send a raven to have more sent," Sandor replied as patiently as he could. "If you worry about additional men, give them something to do. Set them to continuing the repairs of Winterfell, have them build barracks outside the walls, have them write out the names of every Targaryen ruler in piss on the snow, I don't fucking care. You came here for a wedding. Eventually the guests must leave."

Manderly considered him for a moment, weighing what he said. "When the guests leave, my lord, do you think that Bolton will leave of his own accord? He was granted Winterfell by King Tommen."

"Soon relieved of it by King Stannis."

"You will have no one left to guard the keep."

"So leave me some men. I will find others."

The silence was longer than any they'd endured yet. The Lord Manderly, fat, weak, and injured, held the reins while the beast glared back at him. "Counsel the Lady Sansa to harden her heart and brace for trouble," her sponsor answered solemnly. "Three mornings hence, we bring the Starks back to Winterfell."


	12. Chapter 12

Three days later, the Cleganes stood together in the ruins of the First Keep, waiting. Sansa's eyes were closed, her breath a whispered prayer to the old gods, the new gods, anyone who would listen. Sandor merely waited, watching for the sign. It took nearly an hour before one of the mermen casually dropped his spear against the shield of a guardsman, the sound echoing back and drawing the attention of everyone in the area. Silently, Sansa pulled her hood tigher around her face and led the way into warm hall as the argument outside drew more attention. They paused outside of Manderly's chambers, waiting again for their cue.

"…something of a surprise, although it is something I know we have all long prayed for," Manderly's nasal voice intoned. A few more longwinded tributes and Sandor knocked heavily on the door. "There we go," Manderly's voice rang out, a perky confidence that he must have been faking. "Enter."

The door swung open and Sandor stepped through, allowing his hood to fall back. "You feel _the Hound_ is the answer to our prayers, Manderly?" Bolton's voice was quiet and dangerous.

"Hardly, milord," Sandor grinned unpleasantly. "May I present the lady Sansa?"

Although he didn't turn to look, the gasps told him all he needed to know. They knew her, every one. How could they not? Once he knew every eye was on her, he turned to face her and bowed. "My lady, I believe you know the assembled lords and Lady Dustin."

Her face was a mask of cool cordiality. She had spent the better part of a day schooling her features in front of a mirror. _"Queen Cersei's disdain, Tully reserve, and Stark strength," _she told him when he asked what she meant to achieve._ "They must know from the moment they see me that I cannot be bullied, nor dismissed, nor refused."_

She graced him with a smile as he bowed and thanked him, then turned to face her banner men. Her banner men, the concept was so strange.

Hother Umber was the first to step forward and incline his head. "My lady Stark!" he rasped. "It truly is you! How did you come to be here?"

"A tale for another time," she dismissed politely, turning to find Cerwyn and Locke waiting to be acknowledged. "Lady Sansa," they muttered in unison.

Lord Ryswell was next. "I am very pleased to see you whole and unharmed," he told her.

Lady Dustin curtsied slightly but did not break eye contact. "Lady Stark."

All eyes slid to Bolton, standing straight and lean against the hearth. "You will forgive me, gentle lady, but how can we be sure that you are the lost lamb?"

Sansa smiled seraphically. "No forgiveness is needed for doubting me, my lord. These are dangerous and uncertain times. Having been away for so long, I am sure I have changed."

He smiled wanly and inclined his head. "My lords, my lady, are you certain this is Sansa Stark?"

"I have not seen her in a dog's age, but I believe it," said Whoresbane, keeping Bolton in his peripheral vision while he moved to look closer at the girl.

"Roose, even an imbecile could see that this is Sansa," Lady Barbrey Dustin sneered. "She is her mother, come again in youth."

"I have oft been told that the red hair and blue eyes I shared with my mother and with others before us is how the Tully sigil was created," Sansa smiled, ignoring Lady Dustin's tone. "I do believe I have gotten my height from the Stark line. I never met my grandfather, but my aunt Lysa had much the same coloring as mine, though she was quite short."

The others chimed in with their own acceptance until Sansa nodded her thanks. "I only wish I could have arrived sooner," she said, "for I fear I have some distressing news."

Manderly rubbed his bandaged throat. "These are distressing times, my lady. What would you tell us?"

"When I left the Vale, I was told that my sister Arya was in residence. In fact, I was told that she was to be married to your heir, my lord," she smiled sympathetically. "I hoped to arrive in time for her wedding. Sadly, I only saw the bride as she joined with Mors Umbers' company, but I can tell you with all certainty that it was not Arya Stark. Being several years younger than I and so very wild, Father was loathe to take her with him when visiting his leal lords, you may not have seen her for many a year. But I assure you, the girl who left with Theon Greyjoy was not my sister."

"She claimed to be Arya Stark. Theon Greyjoy confirmed it," Barbery countered.

"I cannot be sure of the pretender's motives for the false claim. As for Theon, I'm told he has suffered some … misfortunes. The strain may very well have taken his mind."

"Disturbing news, indeed," Lord Umber murmured, rubbing his chin. "How can you be certain, if you only saw the girl from a distance?"

"My lord," Sansa inclined her head. "I know my sister. She spent most of her life at my side. Would you not know your brother from another man, even if he were across a field?"

Hother Umber smiled wryly and nodded once. "I would, at that."

"When did you last see your sister," Lady Dustin asked. "I understood that she had disappeared for a time?"

She hadn't seen Arya for days, perhaps weeks before their father died. She had decided on a lie to strike home a point, although Sandor was against it. _"Why lie when truth is strong enough?"_ he'd growled at her. _"And you're the worst damned liar I've ever seen."_

_"You have not seen my lies as of late,_" she reminded him. _"They have become as familiar as friends."_

"I saw her the day our father was murdered and have not seen her since."

There was some disquiet at that and she was pleased. "The day he was executed?" Barbrey replied, the words neither a correction nor a clarification, hanging between them for a moment before she continued. "That was more than two years ago. As you said yourself, young girls grow. Is it not possible that her looks have changed in the years since you saw her?"

"I have seen Arya Stark," Sandor's voice rose above the quiet discussion. "No girl could have changed so in four months."

"How is it you came to see Arya Stark four months ago?" Manderly asked, letting a look of incredulity slide across his face.

"We were both of us prisoners of the Brotherhood Without Banners," Sandor said, only a hint of venom in his voice. "When I left them, I took the girl with me."

Bolton's expression hadn't changed. His pale eyes watched the two before him with a certain detachment. "You saved a young girl from these bandits, then?" Bolton prompted, his words chosen carefully.

"I did. I meant to take her to her mother and brother at the Twins. We got to the riverbank to find the Northern army being slaughtered."

His tone had no hint of accusation, no tinge of aggression. But his gaze settle on Bolton when he added, "I saved her then as well, from rape and killing. Having saved the girl twice, I know her face."

"If this was not Arya Stark, where is she?" Locke asked.

"The Free Cities would be my guess. She left me to die after a skirmish, headed for a boat to carry her away."

The assembled host considered all they'd heard and murmured amongst themselves. As Manderly predicted, not one of them had believed the bride was truly Arya but none would have risked the Dreadfort wrath.

"We are, of course, extraordinarily thankful to have you safe and sound with us, Lady Sansa, however disturbing the tidings you bear" Bolton said, his voice a quiet, milky sound. "I fear you may have chosen poorly the time of your homecoming. The pretender Stannis is days away."

"Yes, so I am told," Sansa replied. Without asking leave or explaining her intentions, she walked further into the room and moved to the large table where maps and letters were laid out, where for years the Stark family had conducted their business. She pulled out the heavy chair at the head of the table and sat, pouring herself a glass of wine.

Without a word being spoken, the lords moved from their various perches around the room to drift to the table. Lord Ryswell held the chair for his daughter Barbrey and everyone settled, an nervous excitement palpable among them. Sandor didn't move a muscle until every lord was seated, Bolton selecting the seat to the left of the foot of the table. Only then did he join them, standing a short distance behind and to the side of his lady, the position he'd occupied for years in the service of Joffrey. It did not go unnoticed.

"I have no desire to be Queen in the North," she told them gravely. "Nor any right to claim the title. Westeros is tearing itself apart with this war. In King's Landing, I saw men hungry and desperate and dying. In the Vale, I saw farmsteads burned and lands abandoned. And now, Winter is Coming."

The power was intoxicating. She knew now why people craved it. Every face in the room was fixed on her, men who had many more years than she, who had fought in battles and braved untold horrors, all watching her. They were listening.

When Sandor returned to her after his conference with Manderly, he told her that there was hope, but she must be strong. Had he said the words to Arya, she would have set to polishing and sharpening her Needle, practicing her thrusts and parries and donned armor. She might have been able to make them listen, to lead them. She had spent years watching her brothers fight, been taught by Syrio Forrel, and taken her vengeance. But Sansa had spent her entire life learning to be a lady, three of those years at the knee of Queen Cersei and Lady Olenna Tyrell. She had been the plaything of a prince, of a king. And she had learned from the very best the art of discretion, of playing one side against the other, and of patience. It was odd to find herself thankful for her time with the Lannisters and Littlefinger, but they had given her the tools she needed today. The tools to destroy them, in time.

In the three days she'd been allotted, she had washed her hair again and again until every trace of the brown dye was gone. She sent Sandor back to the castle to smuggle out one of Lady Catelyn's beautiful gowns, although she had needed to add some length to the skirt. They planned their attack and they waited.

Now she sat before them, tall and straight-backed, and proud. Her skin glowed like cream and her hair flowed down her back in the northern style like spun copper. The dress was really too cold for the day, but it was the most beautiful one left in Catelyn's wardrobe: a silken gown of grey and black, trimmed with black fur. She was sure she would be terrified when she spoke to her banner men but as she sat before them, all fear left her.

"My brother Robb is dead," she said, "I am the eldest living child of Eddard Stark and I mean to claim Winterfell in his name. My family has thrived here for time out of mind and I will not let that fail while it is in my power to keep it. Do any of you protest this?"

"Of course, my lady, Winterfell is yours by right. And it is your home."

Bolton's voice was deeply unsettling. It gave Sansa an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach much like when Joffrey would summon her to court. She nodded and smiled courteously, waiting for another voice. When none answered, she thanked them and turned the conversation. "Then, as the Lady of Winterfell, I intend to open the gates and bend the knee to Stannis Baratheon."

"You would have us in rebellion against the king?" asked Locke.

"Yes."

"You ask us to risk much," Lady Dustin pointed out. "To rebel against the king is a dangerous game."

Sansa took her time in answering, picking up a wooden horse from one of the maps, a marker used to indicate infantry when strategizing. The fact that a horse was the Ryswell sigil was not missed by Lady Dustin. "You rebelled before," Sansa reminded them, rolling the horse between her thumb and fingers. "You made a king of Robb Stark, in fact. And bore him forth as the King in the North."

"Robb called his banners," Cerwyn replied. "We answered."

"Robb called his father's banners," she corrected gently, "because his father had been unjustly imprisoned. And instead of a show of force to pressure the Lannisters into relenting and releasing him, a fourth of the kingdom rose up in rebellion with a self-appointed king at its head. I was not present for my brother's councils, did not campaign with him, but I knew him, my lords, my lady. The boy I grew up with had no taste for glory. He had honor and he had pride and he was stubborn. But I cannot believe that he crowned himself. It makes no matter now, he is dead. I ask you only to choose Stannis, the rightful king of Westeros."

There was some unctuous muttering and discomfort at her velvet accusations, but none dared deny it. "Why say you that Stannis is the rightful king?" Lady Dustin asked.

Sansa and Sandor had spent hours working out what weapons to use, which battles to fight. This one could not be ignored.

"As many of you have heard," Sansa replied, desperately trying to keep her blushes at bay, "King Tommen is not the legitimate heir of Robert Baratheon. He, as well as his siblings, are the product of Queen Cersei and her brother, Ser Jaime Lannister."

"There is no one in the damn land that hasn't heard that said," Hothor Umber grumbled. "Stannis had every raven in Westeros carrying the words."

"They are true."

Lord Manderly sucked his teeth quietly, grimacing at the sting of pain in his neck. "My lady, what proof do we have? Robert certainly treated the children as his own."

"It is said that every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin," Sansa replied. "The same can be said of any pairing between a brother and sister. Robert, Stannis, and Renly are all black of hair. Every royal child was blonde and green-eyed. That in itself is not condemnation enough, but every child of the Baratheon line for many generations has had black hair, including Robert's many bastards."

A few of the lords mumbled for a moment before Sandor's voice silenced them. They had nearly forgotten he was there, so quiet and unmoving behind Sansa. "I served at Casterly Rock for many years, and many more at the Red Keep. Jaime Lannister has been fucking his sister since he could get his cock hard. It was the Kingslayer who brought his sister moon tea after the king would lay with her, and it was the Kingslayer who stayed with her while she gave birth to three blond wailing babes. There is no Baratheon blood left to the throne but Stannis."

"Is that why you ran from Blackwater?" Roose Bolton wondered. "Ran with your tail between your legs?"

Every person in the room expected the Hound to lash out, to strike the man or worse. Instead, Sandor laughed. "I ran because the Imp set the damned river afire , lost half my men in moments and he commanded us back out. I was done being their dog."

"That begs reminding; Lady Sansa is married to the Imp. You intend for us to rebel against the family that has a claim to this keep?"

"My marriage to Tyrion Lannister has been annulled," Sansa announced. "And I will say this now: of all the Lannisters I have met, he is by far the best. If he returns to Westeros from wherever he has fled, we would to do well have him on our side."

Lady Dustin fixed her with a pointed glare. "You advise us to rise against a Lannister but to bring another Lannister to our bosom."

Sansa returned her look with an icy demeanor. "My lady, have you ever met Tyrion Lannister?"

"Yes, at a feast or some such."

"Did you ever have the misfortune to meet Joffrey Baratheon?"

"Not since he was a babe, no."

Without a word, Sansa turned up her sleeve, pushing the fabric as high up her arm as it would go. Holding it in place, she turned her arm to show them an ugly scar above her elbow. "This was a gift of Joffrey's," she told them. Letting her sleeve slide down, she pulled her hair away from her neck to show another at the top of her back. "As was this. I have more, although they are in more indelicate, private places. Tender places. You all fought gallantly for my brother. And with every victory you won, I earned a badge of honor as well. I was Joffrey's favorite diversion. Any time word came of a battle lost or a hostage taken, I was called before the court and then beaten by the men of the Kingsguard. All of them were armed and armored men when set to beating me. I can tell you Ser Meryn Trant hit the hardest but I believe Ser Boros Blount had the cruelest aim. It was not done in secret, all the court knew, every knight and every lady, including Queen Cersei. Two people stood against Joffrey to protect me: Sandor Clegane and Tyrion Lannister. We were caught in a riot when we gathered to send Princess Myrcella to Dorne. The party was separated. Many people were killed, Lady Lollys Stokeworth raped half a hundred times. It was Tyrion Lannister who tried to force the noble knights back into the press to find me, which Joffrey forbid. It was Sandor Clegane who stayed behind, who rescued me from a throng of men and carried me to safety. Weeks later, to punish me for Robb's victories in the field, Joffrey had me stripped naked before the court, after a beating. It was Tyrion Lannister who stopped the abuse and it was Sandor Clegane who covered me with his own cloak. Clegane stands beside me now. So yes, should Tyrion Lannister return, I suggest we bring him to our bosom. I owe him a debt. Not only that, but it was his strategies that secured the Lannister victory when Stannis meant to sack King's Landing."

The room was silent, looks of horror and pity on nearly every face in the room. Lady Dustin's held a grudging docility and Roose Bolton's, of course, had not changed.

"You all agree that I am the Lady of Winterfell. Stannis is coming. I mean to bend the knee, provided he agrees to leave my home to my own governance. Do any amongst you intend to resist doing the same?"

It was a hard thing to ask, she knew that. What they said now, in this room, might well mean their life. "The Freys have my nephew," Hother Umber said quietly. "The Greatjon."

"Yes," Sansa said sympathetically. "And believe me when I say that I prayed every day for rescue when I was held captive. When it did not come, I was hurt, and angry, and scared. My fear and sorrow made me prisoner every bit as much as the stone walls."

"Gods forgive me, but … I am with you, Lady Sansa," Umber said. "If the Freys kill Jon … he would rather us be free to act, than to shrink aside because of him."

In turn, Cerwyn and Locke spoke their support. Manderly spoke for White Harbor and Hornwood both. As ever, Dustin and Bolton were the last.

Lady Barbrey was a handsome woman, pretty but with a fierceness underneath that made it hard to meet her eye. She leaned forward, watching Sansa, daring her to look away. "I have little love for Starks. The name revered throughout the kingdoms is like bitter herbs on my tongue. I will not support you nor obey you for being a Stark." If she expected the younger woman to protest or cry or react at all, she was disappointed. "However," she continued when it was clear she had provoked nothing, "I heed good counsel when I hear it. I would not have wished upon you the tribulations you have suffered but I think perhaps that you have been made better by them. Honor is all well and good, but remember that it was honor killed your father."

"Indeed, my lady. I thank you for your candor."

Sansa wanted to cry at the harsh words, or to strike the woman for what she'd said about Lord Eddard. Her mask protected her, as it had done for years. Lady Barbrey nodded briskly and turned to her former good brother.

"Well, Roose, what will you have? Will you eat the pudding the rest of us were served and risk breaking your teeth?"

This man was more dangerous than Joffrey ever had been, Sansa could feel it. More devious than the queen, crueler than the prince, and as quiet as Lord Varys. It was a terrifying combination. "I will bow to what my fellow lords agree," he murmured.

"Thank you all," Sansa said. "We will make the North strong again, together. If you will accompany me to the Great Hall, our men need to hear the news so they may celebrate with us."

Everyone stood and began to gather their things together when Manderly called out in an innocent gurgle, "My lady, can you tell us when you plan to begin entertaining suitors? Many young men will vie for your favor."

"Oh dear," she tsked, putting her head to her head, "with all the talk this morning, I have left out some important and happy news."

Every eye turned to watch her, startled. Even Roose Bolton looked surprised, his eyebrows slightly higher on his pale forehead.

"I am no longer Sansa Stark," she told them, smiling sweetly. "I am now Sansa Clegane."

The room was silent with the exception of Lord Ryswell, who looked near to faint and was making incredulous sighs. Sandor stood behind his lady wife, trying to force a smirk into a smile, and laid a hand across her shoulder.

One of the lords muttered a half-hearted protest. "My lady …"

"Hear me now." Her voice was like a lash, the sunny smile dropped in an instant, the cold fury permeating the room from her body. "I will abide no slander nor malevolent action to be taken against my lord husband Sandor. The first man to do so had best hope that my husband gets to him before I do. He may offer a soft reprimand or a quick death but my retribution will be far more fearsome."

When no voice rose against her, she continued more sweetly. "As you know, the first man I was to marry was the loathsome King Joffrey. The second, which I was forced to marry against my will and with no forewarning, was Tyrion Lannister. Next, Petyr Baelish schemed to have me married to Harold Hardyng I think it fair that upon the necessity of a fourth betrothal, the lady might be consulted. Sandor Clegane has saved my life not once, but several times. He has saved my sister's life. You know him as a vicious soldier and I will not say that he is not. He is also practical, leal, honest, and a leader of men. I respect and value your counsel and loyalty. If you object to our union, you are free to leave Winterfell without harm. But you must do so within the day."

To the surprise of everyone in the room, it was Lady Dustin who was the first to step forth. She moved to Sandor, curtsied minutely, and inclined her head. "Felicitations, Lord Clegane. Lady Clegane."

Following her example, every other lord acknowledged the couple and began to head for the Great Fast. As they walked, Sansa matched pace with Lady Barbrey and waited until the others had outdistanced them before speaking. "You have my thanks, Lady Barbrey. May I know why you were so quick to support my marriage when you had reticence about the rest?"

The lady sniffed and shot Sansa a sideways look. "Kneeling to Stannis involves me and mine. Who you bed does not."

"That is not necessarily the case, as we both know," the younger women offered pointedly. "Every match is a move on a game board."

They'd nearly reached the Great Hall when Barbrey spoke again. "The truth?"

Sansa nodded.

"Because it pleases me to see a Stark daughter wed an ugly man."

"I am sorry for the trouble between our families," Sansa said quietly. "Too often, our hopes and dreams are pulled away and dashed. If there is one thing I learned during my captivity, it is that you must take love and grace where you find it. You may find him ugly, and if that pleases you, fine. To me, he is handsome. He will no longer allow anyone to run roughshod over me and mine and I will no longer allow others to treat him as a useless cur."

"And that," Lady Dustin replied, "is why I was the first to acknowledge him. You gave him favor not for beauty or family connection, but for his love. And in return, he has placed his mantle across your shoulders. Never have I seen a Stark nor a Tully so dangerous as you were today. I do believe I rather like it."

Although the snow had stopped, the wind cracked and whipped their hair and cloaks, forcing the two of them closer to brace against the gusts. Before they crossed the threshold, Sansa reached out her hand to Barbrey, who took it warily, clasping it in her own. "Before you leave us, you must meet my husband's horse. You remind me of him."

Quirking her eyebrow, Lady Dustin allowed the younger woman to lead her into the dining hall.


	13. Chapter 13

As ever, the assembled soldiers took news from their lords with a grudging or indifferent air. Once they had broken their fast, Sansa spoke to them again, thanking them for their service, their dedication, and their patience. The announcement that they were to bend the knee to Stannis was met with some anger and resentment, but it was reined in.

"Winterfell was ravaged by the Ironborn," Sansa continued, taking a moment to look at the ceiling of the Great Hall where hasty reconstruction barely held the elements at bay. "My thanks again for all that you have done to help rebuild. I must ask for your help yet again. Your boarding situation is uncomfortable, I know. Winterfell was never meant to hold so many men at once and we have more coming to join us, for a time. So in addition to guard and training duties, we are going to begin fixing what we can and with the help of Mors Umber's men outside the walls, we are going to construct barracks to house armies now and in the future. As we speak, the Umber forces are undertaking to clear away the snow east of the outer wall. The hot springs run beneath the grass there and the snow hasn't become so mountainous. If any among you are stone masons or carpenters, please come forth when we are finished."

Several men answered her call and many more stepped forward to volunteer. Living as they had for weeks just awaiting an invading force was not only nerve-wracking, but boring. Lord Ryswell took two stone masons and four carpenters to gather men for work inside the keep while Hothor Umber took three stone masons and a carpenter out to greet his brother and assist in snow removal effort. Loose stonework from the ancient parts of the keep was salvaged to use in the construction of the longhouses, although it was made clear that any building standing was to be left alone.

As the men went about their new tasks, Lady Dustin pulled Sansa aside. "You would do well to seal up the grey rats. Who knows what words they send out?"

"The maesters? Surely they serve …"

"They were brought by Bolton," Barbrey interrupted. "Surely we do not know who is served."

Sansa chewed on her lip for a moment, considering. "I cannot think to condemn them when I haven't met them," she said solemnly. "But you are not wrong."

Lady Dustin smiled toothily. "I will take care of them."

"I don't want anyone harmed unless it's necessary," Sansa reminded her.

"Of course. I will see what they have been up to and the dice fall as they may."

Inclining her head, she strode away, summoning a several of her men as she passed by. Sansa sighed and turned to find her husband. Sandor stood across the hall, speaking with a group of men she recognized from their voyage north in the Manderly camp. Looking pleased, he dismissed them and came to find her.

"Our fat friend has given us 50 men at arms as a wedding gift," he murmured. "Men of his personal forces, not smallfolk. I know most of them and trust a few. They will bring the others to heel soon enough. Locke says he's sleeping in the lord's chambers and offers to change rooms, provided we can find him one with few stairs.'

"Of course," she answers immediately. "I can show his servants where to go."

He brushed a lock of hair from her face. "Until we know where loyalties lie and get at least half these buggers out of here, I'm staying by your side. There are some men I trust back at the inn, but it may be a few days before we can get them out here."

She smiled as he pressed a kiss to her lips, then let her lead the way.

From across the room, Roose Bolton's pale eyes watched.

By nightfall, the keep was a different place. The brothers Umber, reunited, led their men to clear away snow drifts in a long strip of land while another band set to felling pines and freeing field stone from the frozen ground. Once the snow was cleared as best they could, the men set to placing the salvaged stonework from the keep along with the stones from the woods and fields. The walls came together quickly though splitting the timbers needed to brace a roof took a while longer. The needles they stripped from the branches and used to line the floor of the longhouse. The Umbers stood before their lady that evening with ruddy cheeks and sweat-drenched clothing. "It'll have a roof by this time tomorrow," Mors swore, bowing to Sansa. "It's not much," Hothor continued, "but it's a sight better than sleeping in a snow bank."

Inside the keep, the changes were less palpable but no less important: an inventory of stores was taken, the stable walls braced and the roof replaced, men had worked hard clearing out the ruins of the burnt Maester's Tower to salvage everything they could. By the time the evening meal was ready, the men were exhausted but warm and well fed. Men who were at each others' throats the night before sat together in a weary camaraderie. Roose Bolton watched the comings and goings, planted safely by his pregnant wife's side. When a young serving boy stopped by to offer wine, Bolton waved him away, raising his own wineskin to his lips. Seeing the exchange, Sandor could not help himself.

"Not fond of strongwine, Bolton? It's bracing."

"I prefer my own vintage."

Sandor grinned, his scarred face constricting and widening in a horrible mockery of what would have been a handsome smile. "Oh yes, so I've been told. In fact, it was Arya Stark who mentioned to me how particular you were in many things."

"Oh?"

Credit where credit was due, the man was a stone. "It's hard to tell now, whether it was on the way to the Twins or after that she told me she'd spent time as your cupbearer."

For the first time, Roose Bolton's veneer seemed to crack. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, his voice equal parts disbelief and dismissal.

Enjoying the game, Sandor turned his gaze to Walda. The young girl was heavy by nature but pregnant, her weight turned to dignity in a way that she'd never felt before. "My lady Bolton, how lovely you look this evening."

She beamed at him. "Why thank you, Lord Clegane!" she chirped.

"I knew your father," he told her, "he was strong as a damn aurochs but I'd never thought him to have such a beautiful daughter."

Walda giggled and squeezed her husband's arm in pleasure. "Funny, isn't it, Bolton? How a child can favor one parent over the other? Each pup in a litter shows their colors differently. Where my lady wife is tall and copperhaired, her sister is short with muddy hair. She cut it off when she took flight from the capital. Most think she's a lad, if they don't look too closely. Hates me something fierce, too. Or did. She hates a great many people, that wolf girl. Well, we both have beautiful brides now. And may the gods save us from their ugly kin."

He raised his goblet in a toast and bowed to Walda, who was blissfully unaware of the important interchange, still pleased by his flattery. When he'd reached the other side of the room, Sandor turned to find Bolton. There was a slight wrinkle between the man's eyebrows, which he took to be consternation or anger. Pleased with himself, he downed his wine and set off to find his wife.

Once Lord Locke was cleared out of the lord's chambers and moved into the room Bran and Rickon once shared, Manderly's men carried in two chests that Sandor had surreptitiously filled with their belongings on trips back and forth from the inn to the keep. Thanking them gruffly, Sandor locked and barred the door when they left, doing two circuits around the room to make sure nothing was suspicious, nothing out of place. Sansa watched him anxiously, perched on a chest at the foot of the bed, trailing her fingers nervously over the carved top. Finally, he was appeased at the security of the room and gave her a wry smile.

Together, they let out a breath they'd both been holding for days. "It isn't over," he warned her, pulling off his breastplate and setting it aside. "We have no guarantee that Stannis won't kill us both for traitors. That is if Bolton doesn't slit our throats while we sleep. I may have even given him reason enough to do it."

He moved over to the bedside and rested his sword against the wall before turning back to continue his foreboding lecture. He was taken completely by surprise when Sansa launched herself at him. He caught her easily but allowed their combined weight to topple him backwards to the bed, growling happily as she grasped at him, clutching and clawing to get his clothes off. Obliging, he pulled his tunic off over his head, letting her unlace his breeches. He was naked within moments, and was surprised how warm the room was. She'd told him the hot springs flowed through the keep walls but he hadn't understood what she meant. When he'd come to Winterfell with the king's party, he'd stayed with the other high ranking soldiers in the other part of the keep. Suddenly, he realized that he was completely nude and Sansa fully dressed. She was splayed on the bed, staring at his manhood lustily, her fingers clutching at the furs on the bed.

"Do you see something you like, my lady?" he asked, stalking forward to her.

"Yes, my lord," she purred, pushing her chest out toward him, spreading her legs a little wider.

"And what's that?"

He wrapped a hand around her cheek, teasing her lips with his thumb, running his other hand through her hair. Moaning, she opened her mouth and sucked hard on his thumb. It was enough to drive him forward, yanking roughly at the laces that bound her into her gown, pulling them hard and pulling her against him with the force. It took far too long to get her out of her dress, they were both accustomed to her wearing more simple garb. When her breasts fell free, she stretched and grinned happily, flopping backwards on the bed, holding her arms out to him. He wasted no time in laying himself on top of her, pressing sloppy, heated kisses to her neck, her chest, her nipples. Some part of her knew that she ought to be ashamed that the lords and lady in the rooms next to them might hear her wanton moans but she couldn't bring herself to care. As Sandor lined their hips up, she wrapped her legs around him, then struggled to bring them higher. He reached down and pulled an ankle higher, leaning back to thrust into her. His length dragged in and out of her and she rolled her hips, still not getting as much as she needed. Frustrated, she slid her other leg up to his shoulder, surprising both of them. Sandor grunted with the new, deeper angle, and shuddered for a moment, bracing himself before increasing his rhythm and power. Overwhelmed by the moment, he peaked, pressing himself tight against her, shuddering and giving a few last thrusts. Slipping his fingers to rub her in neat circles, he grinned ferally at her as she moaned and keened her own release.

They lay together afterwards, panting gently. "It's not over," he repeated. "We've no shortage of enemies."

She yawned and curled against him. "The door is locked and barred, any killers will have to wait until tomorrow."

"Aye, they will at that," he chuckled. "Are you pleased? To be back?"

"I am," she sighed happily, playing with his chest hair. "I'll be happier when we can truly make it home."

"I haven't had a real home since I was a child. Left for Casterly Rock when Gregor was knighted, campaigned, lived at the Red Keep a while. But none of them home."

She murmured sympathetically and laced her fingers with his. "You are home now."

"As you say," he murmured back. His guard was still high but she was right. It felt like home here, with her.


	14. Chapter 14

They were graced with sun and warmer weather for the next seven days, making the wrack and ruin that surrounded them seem much more inviting. Construction was finished on the barracks outside the castle walls, the Umbers estimating it could hold a thousand men comfortably, perhaps three thousand uncomfortably. Mors Umber lodged his men within, as did a contingent of Bolton men.

Many small bits of masonry were fixed, making much of the castle tenable again. Sadly, many windows were broken and there was no glass to be had. If none could be found before the next storm, they would have to block the windows for the nonce and send to Volantis for more. As luck would have it, only two panes of the Glass Garden were beyond repair and those were boarded immediately to protect the struggling food growing within.

The snows receded slowly, white banks disappearing and leaving soggy, muddy fields in their wake. The storms would come again: longer and fiercer than these, but for now, they celebrated.

On the fourth day after Sansa reclaimed Winterfell, she sat in front of the window, watching Sandor run drills with the 50 men Manderly had given them. Men from other camps had come to watch, some tentatively joining in the training, obviously awed by the chance to be knocked silly by The Hound. Her father's tourney seemed so long ago and yet, only just last month, but she remembered clearly watching Sandor charge on his courser, unseating such great men as Jaime Lannister and Renly Baratheon and, more dear yet to her, she remembered him flying through the crowd to save Ser Loras from the Mountain. For all that she was afraid of him, she had desperately hoped he would live and was inordinately proud of him when he did. Through all of his troubles, he was still a mighty warrior.

Her reverie was interrupted by a knock on her solar door. She stood and placed her hand on the bolt. "Who is it?"

"Barbrey Dustin," came a lady's voice, slightly out of breath.

Sansa slid the bolt free and pulled the door open enough to ascertain that it was in fact Lady Dustin and that she was alone. As she pulled the door wide, she patted the dagger on her hip, making sure it had not fallen out. Although her husband was loath to leave her alone, they had encountered very little threat or danger since arriving. The men they'd befriended at the inn had joined them the night before and she knew that two of them stood guard down the hall. When they arrived, Sansa apologized and sent one back to the inn with an offer to make Bessa her handmaid. The girl had returned with the soldier, her thick frame practically floating into the keep. At the moment, Bessa was pulling out all of Sansa's dresses and any more she was able to find around the keep in the attempt to make sure the lady of Winter had a full wardrobe as befit her station.

It needed doing, but Sansa was sad to lose a conversation partner and was pleased to see Barbery. "My lady," she smiled prettily. "Please come in. Would you like a drink?"

"Please," Lady Dustin nodded. "Anything wet."

Sansa poured her a glass of sweetwater, flavored with lemons. Winded from her walk, the older woman sat and drank thankfully before pulling a piece of parchment from her sleeve. "I was right!" she said victoriously. "I told Theon Greyjoy: don't trust the rats. Ha! Three of them here and only one worth a damn."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Maesters, girl. I have … spoken with them. Rhodry and Henly were Roose's puppets, there was no hiding it. And why shouldn't they be? He brought them, after all. They are gone. They're alive, I swear it, but they have been removed from causing you - or us - danger."

Sansa nodded sadly. After all this time, she still expected knights to be brave and true, maesters to be wise and caring, and those who swore fealty to remain loyal. "And the third? Maester Medrick?"

"We are all of us wrong, sometimes. That one is more fire than incense but he burns true. He served House Hornwood, before Lady Donella was left alone to starve to death. His hatred for the Boltons seemed sterling, but he performed duties for them to the very letter of his creed and not a bit more. He gave me this."

She handed Sansa the parchment she held. On it was a map, drawn in a nervous hand, that detailed where Stannis' army was in relation to Winterfell. It was signed to Rhodry from a Maester Tybald and very clearly spoke of betrayal. "It was meant to lead an army to their camp," Dustin clarified. "Medrick wasn't sure how long Rhodry had held the letter before surrendering it, but thinks our forces marched before it was sent."

Sansa considered the map for a long time, folding and unfolding the parchment until it threatened to fall apart. Finally, she stood and rummaged through the assorted papers on the table until she found a vial of red ink and a quill.

"What are you about?" Lady Dustin asked, trying to read what the girl wrote on the parchment.

"A first impression," Sansa said, tapping the nib of her pen against the inkwell.

_Your Grace,_

_As you may know by now, you have a traitor in your midst. I send this map back to you in good faith as I hope you will still come to Winterfell, though now in friendship, as lordship has passed back into Stark hands._

_My husband and I wait upon your convenience and will be pleased to offer fealty when you arrive. Also in residence at the moment are Mors and Hothor Umber, Lords Cerwyn, Manderly, Locke, and Ryswell, Lady Barbrey Dustin, and Lord Roose Bolton. We are of a mind, your grace, and at your service._

_A large contingent of Manderly and Frey men were sent to meet you before I reclaimed my birthright but I am assured that they were given a second set of instructions to join forces with you. I have reason to believe that Lord Bolton's son is also afield with some men of his own, looking for his bride. He believes her to be Arya Stark which, I am sad to report, she is not. Mors Umber reports that he sent this girl and Theon Greyjoy on to you._

_Your loyal servants,_  
_Lord Sandor Clegane and Lady Sansa Clegane, of House Stark_

She handed the note back to Barbrey. "Very good," she murmured, reading. "You have managed to make yourself so hospitable, it's possible he will never take you up on your offer. And you warn him of Ramsay without committing to your impressions on paper. Very good."

Sansa sighed and chewed her lip for a moment. "Do you think he will come?" she asked.

"Oh yes, very probably."

"And what will he do?"

Barbrey Dustin smirked and shrugged genteelly. "Who can say? My instinct will be that with a castle full of men all swearing to your identity and pledging themselves to you, Stannis dare not interfere with a Stark daughter. He has Mormonts and Glovers and hill tribes, all of whom loved your father. He may take the castle from you still, using it as a base camp. But I think you are not in danger."

Sansa let out a shuddering sigh and pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. "Gods, I hope you're right."

They walked together to deliver the note to Maester Medrick, who bowed to Sansa while letting a raven fly with one hand.

That night, Sansa told the lords of her correspondence, leaving out the warning she'd included about Ramsay Bolton. A nervous energy pervaded the room and they parted quickly, each to their own rooms, protected by their own men.

Three days later, Stannis' force arrived.

That morning, the castle awoke to find their gates standing open, the keep short a thousand men. There was no sight of Lord Roose Bolton, nor any of his own men. There was a note, pinned to the doors of the great keep asking the king's forgiveness, but stating that there was no way to delay his leaving. Discreetly, a small force of men was sent through every building in Winterfell to ascertain whether the Boltons were truly gone. Not so much as a tattered pennant was found. Later that morning, the Frey and Manderly contingent returned, leading a flock of others behind them. From what she was told, several dozen men of Frey blood had been mysteriously killed and the Manderlys had lost three. The castle gate stood wide open, welcoming two thousand Freys and Manderlys and two thousand more men with the fiery heart sewn on their chest.

Sandor couldn't help but be reminded of a time only a few years ago when he had ridden through those same gates, following another Baratheon into the arms of winter. Stannis slid from his horse with an unwieldy sort of grace and moved to greet Sansa first. She bowed low, her knees bent and her eyes lowered. "Your Grace," she whispered sweetly, "We are so pleased to see you."

"Lady Sansa," Stannis replied tersely. He had the look of his brothers, but either her memory of Robert was weak or the war had taken a toll on the man in front of her, for he looked years older than the first king ever had. "And I am very pleased to see you back in your rightful home."

She smiled again and curtsied. "My thanks."

Stannis nodded perfunctorily and moved down the line, greeting Sandor Clegane with a reserved and grudging respect. "Clegane," Stannis said, nodding as the tall man bowed. "I heard you went rabid, killing and raping like your brother."

Knowing he was being goaded, Sandor merely offered a grunt and a sneer. "Ravens carry lies as easily as they carry truths."

He could have sworn he heard Stannis chuckle, but knowing it was impossible, assumed the man had just mumbled an agreement. The king greeted each lord in turn, a stony glare for Manderly before Sansa led the way for the nobles to convene in her solar.

Once they arrived, Sansa spoke quickly about her time in King's Landing and Sandor about his time amongst the Brotherhood to give Stannis an idea of where they stood. They explained why they believed the girl he'd sent to the wall was not Arya, which annoyed the man somewhat, but he let it pass. Snow had asked for the girl, he would get her. That she was not truly his sister was Snow's problem.

Once every lord had a chance to speak and swear fealty to Stannis, Sansa seized her moment. She and Sandor had spoken at length about the risks and gains of what she was about to do and decided that it was the only way.

"Your Grace, we are so pleased to have you here with us," she began, her smile warm and compelling, "and thankful that our men were able to meet up with yours without bloodshed. However, now that our allegiance is clear, we want you to know that we are going to insist that the Freys leave Winterfell by tomorrow noon."

The king sucked in a breath and held it, thinking. "I don't know that ousting the Freys will win us any favor with their kin," he told her. Although he was a harsh man, a man who refused to bandy words or coddle anyone with false hope or lies, he found himself speaking gently to this girl. Perhaps it was her fiery hair, that reminded him of Melisandre's. Or perhaps it was loyalty to her father, a man he had respected for his fierce honor and who had reached out to him upon discovering the bastardry of the royal children. Whatever the case, he felt compelled to listen to this young girl, certainly moreso than the fair-weather friends he had in the lords.

"Their kin currently hold Riverrun," she pointed out. "A great keep, given to them for a betraying guest right and murdering the man they swore to obey as king, however wrongly placed that allegiance was."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Well, this is your castle, Lady Clegane. I mean to handle the Freys in my own time but no matter the slight you offer, I think they are within my means."

"Thank you, your grace," she beamed shyly.

He nodded and moved on to his next task. "Sandor Clegane. When I was told you were raping and pillaging in the Saltpans, I believed it. When I was told you'd died and were buried alongside some road, I believed it. Yet here you stand, newly wedded to a daughter of Eddard Stark. This is hard to believe. And yet the young lady does seem to dote on you."

"There's no accounting for taste," Sandor replied, shrugging unhappily.

Satisfied with that for the moment, Stannis swept his eyes over the assemblage. "I was told Lord Bolton would be present. I did so long to speak with him."

"He seems to have left quite early this morning," Manderly told him. "I cannot fathom what could have driven him so."

"And yet I find you here," Stannis countered, glaring at Manderly. "Too old and fat to obey your rightful king yet here you sit to attend the nuptials."

Unperturbed, Manderly continued. "I trust what I say now will not leave this room, my lords. The King's Hand, Davos Seaworth, came to see me not long ago and asked me to declare for King Stannis. Being outnumbered and hardly fit for battle, I had to demur, although my heart has ever been loyal."

"And instead you chose to mount his head on your battlements," Stannis ground out, obviously trying very hard not to strike the man.

"No indeed, your grace. A ruse. Davos Seaworth, to all that I do know, is alive and well. I heard some little information about the whereabouts of Rickon Stark and he has gone to fetch the boy hence."

Sansa gasped, her eyes filling with tears. "He has Rickon?"

"My lady, I do not know," Manderly apologized. "If Rickon is there to be found, I have every confidence that Davos Seaworth will bring him home."

After a long moment, Stannis inclined his head to Manderly. "You and I will have more talk after this, my lord."

From then, the rest of their council was a circuitous and tentative summation of Stannis' further plans. Once he stated that he intended to leave Winterfell in a few days' time, Sandor's attention waned. He was not the master of the world, all he cared about was keeping Winterfell's heart beating for Sansa. And that, in itself, would provide problems enough.

It wasn't until Stannis mentioned Harrenhal that he was caught up again in the conversation. "I will build my numbers as we march," Stannis continued, "until we reach Harrenhal in the river lands. I intend to take the castle as my next stronghold to fall back upon, should the need arise."

"Harrenhal?" Lady Dustin breathed. "Surely not."

"And why not?"

"They say it's haunted," Sandor offered. "Ghosts or no, every man who has held the place has died."

"I care not for superstitious twaddle," Stannis said coldly, tapping his fingers on the table.

"Bonifer Hasty has been named castellan," Lord Ryswell told him. "He and his holy hundred are rounding up villains throughout the river lands."

Stannis nodded. "He's a good knight, and true. He will open the doors for me when I walk up."

"He cannot utter a sentence without mentioning The Seven," Barbrey interjected. "His fealty is leashed to his faith."

"Let the man pray to whomever he wishes," Stannis said, tapping his fist in the table. "But he will bow to me."

They broke soon after and Sandor went to find the leaders of the Frey forces. As anticipated, none of them had any desire to leave the relative warmth and safety of Winterfell with another storm building to the east, but leave they did. With the multitude of Freys gone, the keep seemed to be a large place again, rather than a crowded stable. Stannis' men ate well for the first time in weeks and were glad of it. During their first meal at Winterfell, many men of the hill tribes took turns shuffling before the lord and lady of the keep to see and greet Sansa. Harclays, Knotts, Wulls and Norreys filed past, nodding pleasantly and giving her a word or two in blessing. To each man who approached, Sansa gave a bright smile and a warm thanks, endearing herself to them for all time. As the assemblage dwindled, Donnel Flint approached. He was a short, stout man who swaggered, rather than walked, but his face was amiable and his laugh infectious.

"Milady," he began, bowing jerkily to her. "We didn't think to see you here and that's for true. But we're joyed to you have you. We marched down here to rescue The Ned's daughter but here we find t'other, with no need of saving and a lord of her own."

"The Ned?" murmured Sandor in confusion but Sansa shook her head slightly. "I am very thankful for your efforts to save my sister Arya," she said. "I hope to be as good a lady for you as my father was a lord. If you would ever have need of me, please know that you need only ask."

"Well, milady, as it happens, I was sent with a gift in hand a favor on my tongue. We're kin, you and I, although not so's you'd notice," he grinned, his thick black beard splitting in two. His hair was just as black and fell in waves to his shoulders, his hands already gnarled as his father's were. "Don't have much finery up on the crags, and we thought to find the wee creature, not yourself. But you might have a use for it, as were, or can find one who might."

From his belt he pulled a dagger in its sheath and handed it to Sansa, handle first. It was a simple thing, but pretty in its way. The handle was weirwood, worn smooth over the years, with a rough, unhewn garnet set at its end. The red of the stone matched Sansa's hair and she was caught for a moment, admiring the light that chased throughout. The blade was sharp and shone dully. She slid it back into its scabbard and admired it once again before thanking the man who would be The Flint soon enough.

He nodded happily at her pleasure. "And the favor, Lord Flint?" Sandor asked, his normal gruff tone muted by respect.

"Well, as The Ned never failed to remind us, 'Winter is Coming'," Donnel smiled sadly. "Every winter we send the young ones down here to the town, else the old ones lose themselves. When the king called for us to follow, we did, hoping to serve well for your father's memory. It strikes me that our young are already here. No point in marchin' 'em back up the crags just to send 'em back down. And with settin' up the new household here at the keep, we thought you might could use a Flint or two around the place. Hard workers, one and all, I'll swear to that or know the reason why."

"Lord Flint, we are very thankful and honored," Sansa replied, sure that it was what her father would have done. "We will be more than happy to welcome a few of your people. Have they completed their tenure with King Stannis?"

"He called us to march on Winterfell. Here we stand. That there was no battle to be had is no fault of ours."

She laughed, enjoying the man's humor. "Very well. I am pleased to grant you this favor. Now, might we ask one in return?"

"Your ladyship, I am yours to command."

"The men who took Winterfell killed not only men but animals as well," she said. "We have horses, but no livestock, no hounds. Lord Cerwyn has offered us a generous stock of animals but once he arrives home, he cannot return for fear of the storms. Could I beg your assistance in helping my lord husband transport them here?"

He barked a laugh and grinned. "Milady, that's scarce a favor. This I would do even for a Wull or a Norrey. Castle Cerwyn's but half a day's ride. I'll ride whenever the lord requires."

Sandor found himself like the man, a new experience for him. "In two days, at sunrise."

Donnel excused himself to return to his meal after bidding farewell and the last of the well-wishers shuffled by quickly. As the last of them turned to go, Sandor muttered, "The Ned?"

"My father," she said. "In the clans, the chief is their lord, but they don't use the word. Instead, they are simple THE. Every man with Donnel is a Flint but his father is THE Flint."

He grunted in understanding. "I believe that was the first person who looked me in the eye when he spoke to me. Every other lordling here would have tried to save you from me, but he seemed to think you safer with me by your side."

"And so I am," she smiled. "The clans value strength and fighting. Mother said Arya must have gotten her temper from great-grandmother Flint. To them, you weren't The Hound, you were simply a mighty warrior. They respect you."

His only answer was a snort, but when she stole a glance at him, she could tell he was pleased.

Two days later, devoid of Freys and Boltons, Winterfell prepared for the king's departure as well. Stannis gave them a brief but courteous farewell, setting off with his men at dawn. Those that stayed behind were Flints as well as a few youths from the other clans, a Mormont lesser cousin, and whores, two camp followers who thought their chances of survival were greater in the Winter Town than on the campaign. At a final conference the night before with the Cleganes, Stannis told them he meant to leave them out of his machinations for some time since they had just taken the keep and as such, had no men at arms, no supplies to spare, and with winter on their heels, he thought it better to leave them alone, the better to utilize their strength once they'd built some. Sandor tried not to show how relieved he was as the king left.

An hour later, Donnel Flint and his men stood ready at the gate, ready for the march to Castle Cerwyn. It would be the first time that Sandor and Sansa would be separated since he spirited her away from the Eyrie and although they both knew the need of it, they were both anxious. Tucked away in an alcove, the two were wrapped tightly in each others' arms. Neither spoke, they just held each other for a long moment before Sansa stretched up to give him a kiss goodbye. They'd said all they needed to in the days before: Sandor was to take every precaution on the road, Sansa was to keep a dagger at hand and Manderly's most trusted knight at her side.

They moved out to the yard and, aware that the eyes of the clans as well as the men of lords Cerwyn, Locke, Ryswell, and Manderly, were trained on them, Sandor pulled her into his arms and gave her a fierce kiss. She returned the fervor, holding his face in her hands. When she pulled away, he caught one hand and kissed her knuckles. "Fare well, my lady."

"And you, my lord," she replied. Her voice was sure and strong, knowing that she could show no weakness in front of her bannermen. Once the large gates closed behind him, she led them all to break their fast in the Great Hall.

After they were finished, Sansa oversaw preparations for the departure of Lords Ryswell and Locke that afternoon. They took their leave without incident, leaving only Lord Manderly and Lady Barbrey with their retinues as well as a few Flints. Sansa invited Barbrey to take tea together that afternoon before they summoned Maester Medrick to join them. The Maester was in his mid-forties, sinewy and tall. His hair was a mottled mixture of black, grey, white hair, his skin tan and his manner reserved. "My lady Barbrey, my lady Clegane," he murmured, bowing politely.

"Maester Medrick. Please, have a seat," Sansa smiled at him, gesturing to a chair across from her. "First, I would like to thank you for your diligence and your honor. The letter you secured from the other maesters allowed us to ensure King Stannis' faith."

He inclined his head. "A maester's duty is to all he can for the house he serves. I have not, perhaps, done my duty for Lord Bolton as I ought."

"Lady Dustin tells me you were the maester for Lady Hornwood before her unfortunate death. Being attached so recently to the Bolton household, especially when two other maesters already served, your service is beyond reproach."

"My thanks, Lady Sansa. I will admit that I found it rather difficult to serve the Boltons."

"Small wonder," Barbrey scoffed.

"Would you find it difficult to serve the Cleganes?" Sansa asked, smiling wryly.

He shook his head softly. "No, my lady, I would be most pleased to serve you here."

"Then please consider yourself the Maester of Winterfell. We are still rebuilding, as you know, and I sent a list with my husband for everything that I knew we might have need of. If you find that our stores are insufficient, please let me know."

"Thank you, Lady Sansa. I know that you have not run a household before. If I can be of service, please let me know."

"I am certain that I will take you up on that offer, maester," she grinned. "In fact, I could use some guidance now. I have grown accustomed to having foreknowledge of the tides before they sweep over me. I could never hope to have the spies that Lord Varys had or the friendships that Lord Baelish has, but I want to be able to see the storm before we feel the rain."

For the first time, Maester Medrick smiled. "My lady, I know exactly what you mean. I have some ideas."


	15. Chapter 15

It was strange to go to bed without Sandor beside her but stranger still to wake up without him. The bed was cold and felt far too large without his comforting mass. She dressed and went about her day, still trying to shake off the niggling feeling of discomfiture. With Maester Medrick, she visited the library, damaged in the fire set by Bran's would-be assassin and again in the sack of Winterfell, and was pleased to find the majority of the books were safe on their shelves. As Tyrion had noted when he visited, there were many rare volumes here, and Medrick was delighted to see how well these tomes had fared. When they finished, Sansa tried to occupy herself with some needlework, setting herself to making a few new tunics for Sandor. Outside the door stood her guard, ever present. When the light began to fail, she set aside her work and walked again, not so much bored as nervous and preoccupied. The company had dinner and shortly after, Sansa retired to bed, hoping to pass the time more quickly asleep.

The sound of horns woke her the next morning, distant but loud and deep. From her window, she could see a small train of men and animals moving along the road. She yelled for Bessa and they quickly got her laced into a simple but pretty blue gown of Catelyn's, plaited her hair quickly, and she flew to the courtyard to await the party.

Men atop the outer wall called down for the gates to be opened and slowly, slowly, they creaked apart. Sandor was the first across the threshold, still astride Stranger, both of them obviously anxious and jittery. When he saw Sansa across the yard, he pressed the horse to a few short bounds and slid from the saddle. His arms circled her as she threw hers around his neck. Their lips crashed together and he lifted her off the ground, swinging his arm under her legs so he could cradle her against his chest. Part of Sansa's mind chided her that it was not seemly to display such passion openly but she ignored it with an ease that was ever-increasing after leaving the Eyrie.

They were reminded suddenly that they had an audience as a cheer went out from everyone in the yard. Sansa giggled and broke the kiss, hugging him tighter. Chuckling, he set her down. "Little bird," he panted, "I mean to never leave you again."

Her face split in a sensuous grin. "I mean to never let you!"

Another, shorter, kiss and he sighed, returning to the matters at hand. "Are you well? Did anything happen?"

"Everything is fine," she assured him. "The only thing of import is that we now have a maester in service at Winterfell."

"Which one?"

"Medrick. He was the only one not loyal to Bolton."

Sandor sniffed derisively and inclined his head. "Fair reason."

"And you, my lord? What news with you?"

"He's a good man, that Cerwyn. Or else he intends to reclaim the favor some time. Either way, he's done well by us. He sent us livestock, salt fish, and spare timber. Bought other things I thought we'd have need of. And I brought you something. Or rather, two someones."

"Oh yes?" Sansa asked, both nervous and excited.

He grunted and turned to find his guest. When he didn't see him immediately, he bellowed, "Oy, Tully! Where are you, ya bugger?"

The crowd at the gates rippled then parted. Through their midst strode a tall, weathered man with a black leather jerkin, his hair an auburn gone halfway to grey. He stopped before Sansa and gave a polite bow. "My lady. Do you know me?"

Sansa's mind raced. "You must be my great-uncle Brynden," she said finally, smiling at him. "There are so few of we Tullys left."

"I'm afraid so," he agreed, surprised when she embraced him. He'd never met the girl, but he would have known her anywhere. She looked so very much like Catelyn, although there was a playful gleam in her eye that Cat had never had and she stood at least a head taller. "I had hoped you might have use of me. Old I may be, but family and a knight. I served your aunt Lysa as Knight of the Gate for many years."

Before answering, she looked to Sandor, who nodded. "Uncle, I am honored and pleased. Of course we would have you with us. I'm afraid I don't know much about the keeping of a castle, at least not yet."

"My thought was Master-at-Arms," Sandor offered. "The Blackfish is a warrior and more patient than I am for training young idiots."

"Would that suit you?" Sansa asked, pleased that Sandor had an answer ready.

"Quite well," Brynden smiled. "My thanks. Also, my lady, there are things I would tell you, if you had some time in the days ahead."

"Of course, Uncle! I must get to know you better! Perhaps after we sup tonight?"

He bowed and thanked her, then turned to Sandor. "And the other?"

Sandor nodded. "Blacksmith!"

The crowd parted again and a broadchested young man with coal black hair pushed through, coming to stand between the Blackfish and the Hound. "My lady," he murmured, bowing.

"This one came from halfway across Westeros when he heard Arya Stark was being wedded. Found him near Cerwyn's"

"Arya?" Sansa said, surprised. "Did you not tell him the truth before he came?"

Sandor shrugged. "He came anyway."

Sansa frowned and turned back to the tall man in front of her. "The girl they married here was not my sister. We think the true Arya may have gone across the sea."

He nodded. "So the Hound said."

Without warning, Brynden Tully swatted the back of his head. "He is 'Lord Clegane', not 'The Hound' to you, boy."

He scowled, but corrected himself. "So Lord Clegane said."

Taking pity on him, Sansa smiled. "What is your name?"

"Ser Gendry of the Hollow Hill."

" 'Ser'" Sandor scoffed. "Last I saw you, you were rolling in the dirt like puppies with the … with Arya Stark."

"I was knighted by Beric Dondarrion of the Brotherhood without Banners," Gendry replied, glaring insolently.

Sandor spit at the name and growled in displeasure, but didn't push the issue. "I'm a blacksmith," Gendry continued. "I smithed for the Brotherhood, but … well, things are different now. I heard Arya was being given to Ramsay Snow and I followed. Didn't hear otherwise until I was already in the north. Gone so far, might as well keep going. When she comes back, maybe she'll come here."

Sansa considered the man before her. He was of an age with Robb and looked oddly familiar. What could her sister possibly have done to inspire such loyalty in such a one as this?

As though he could sense what she was thinking, he stared down at the dirt before continuing. "I failed her. I chose to stay when she would go and I didn't follow."

Reaching out a hand to touch his cheek, Sansa replied, "A great many of us have not done as well by her as we ought. I more than most. But she is a stubborn little brat and she'll come back, I think."

Sandor snorted again. "The two of you might well be her bosom companions to how she feels for me. You ever wake up to find her standing over you with a rock, ready to smash in your skull?"

Gendry laughed. "I'm only surprised she didn't manage it."

The Hound sneered but chuckled before answering, "Eh, well. She damn near did more than once."

Brynden Tully snorted and shook his head. "Catelyn must have had her hands full with that one."

Sansa nodded, remembering countless temper tantrums and arguments, remembered her utter embarrassment when Arya's lofted food hit her in the face during the king's visit. "She was strongminded, always. Ser Gendry, I am sorry you've come this far to find Arya gone. I hope that when she returns, if she does, that she will come here. We are only now beginning to rebuild Winterfell, our numbers are small and our resources few. We can offer you very little but shelter and hope, but we would be glad of your skills here."

"Thank you, milady," he said immediately, taking a knee awkwardly. "If it please you, I would very much like to stay."

"My lord husband, you seem to have done quite well," Sansa grinned when Gendry had risen. "You left for sheep, you return with a menagerie, a Master-at-Arms, and a smith!"

He smiled back at her, pleased by her praise. "All this and more, little bird. But that will hold. What I want now is food and wine and the company of my wife."

However pleased they were at what he returned with, it would take some time to sort everything out. Sandor started barking orders at the men, sending several trunks and boxes up to Sansa's solar, animals toward their pens, and still the wagons came rolling through the gate. Just when he thought he could take no more, Maester Medrick appeared at his elbow. Introducing himself to his lord, he offered to take charge of the remainder of the livestock and the wagons still rolling into the yard. Sandor thanked him earnestly and slapped him good-naturedly across the back before collecting Sansa and escorting her to the great hall to break their fast. Spotting Gendry looking lost on their way, she invited the smith to join them. Although Sandor grumbled, he didn't object and comforted himself in the knowledge that once they had eaten, he would escort Sansa to their chambers to ravish her. Maybe twice.

Not knowing when their lord would return, the cooks had intended for breakfast to be a simple meal. The same horns that woke Sansa sent the kitchen servants into a flurry: fresh bread was baked, the last of the butter doled out, thick slabs of bacon and boiled eggs dumped into trenchers, chilled wine and thick cider in large crystal pitchers dotted the tables between the platters of food and sent rainbows skittering across the assembled company. Sandor gave a casual wave and everyone sat, digging into the feast with a fervor. Gendry was still wary, his eyes darting across the hall at any loud noise, every bite he took carefully considered. With her husband practically shoveling food into his mouth, Sansa took the opportunity to talk to her sister's friend.

"Ser Gendry, have you ever been this far north before?" she asked politely, dipping a strip of bread into her runny eggs.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Born in King's Landing, never left until I was sent to join the Night's Watch. I joined the Brotherhood instead but we never came this far."

"It's funny," she mused, "I feel as though we've met. You look so familiar."

"No, we've never met," he assured her. "I met your father though, once."

She shook her head in amusement. "Isn't it strange, how these things happen? You met my father and traveled with my sister. And we've never met, but I can't seem to place who you remind me of."

Sandor offered an unintelligible answer, then took the time to swallow his mouthful of food and wipe his hand across his mouth before repeating himself. "Renly. Actually, he looks more like Robert, but you never knew him so young. Hardly surprising."

"What is?" she asked, her brow furrowed.

"He's one of Robert's bastards. The gold cloaks were sent for his blood. Looking at him, small wonder. He's Robert come again."

Gendry's face betrayed his unease and uncertainty. "I never knew my father," he answered tightly. "I don't know who he was."

Pouring himself more wine, Sandor snorted. "Robert of the house Baratheon, that's who he was."

"Are you certain?" Sansa asked.

He nodded and went back to his meal. Gendry shifted in his seat and glanced up at Sansa. "If this is true and you would have me go, I will understand," he murmured.

"Why would we send you away?"

"Lannister forces have come after me once before. Others may as well. My presence is a danger."

Sandor laughed so hard at that, he nearly choked. He gasped through the laughs, his eyes watering. Finally, Gendry gave him a thump on the back and he was able to breathe easily again. "You? You think you might bring trouble? You're a foolish little shit. The Lannisters have bigger fucking problems on their hands than an illegitimate idiot. And if they did broach these walls, I guarantee you'd be the last thing on their minds. Or have you forgotten who the lord and lady of this castle are?"

Sansa smiled softly, pleased that he was beginning to refer to himself as 'lord'. After two years of hearing him growl that he was no ser, no lord, now that the title was his in truth he was stretching out and fitting it to himself.

"I am a deserter," he continued. "I threatened the life of the king. Threatened once, saved countless times, more's the pity. And the Lady Sansa is sought as party to that same king's murder. Brynden Tully too, is a much more valuable prize than yourself. So be easy. And unclench your ass, you look like you've got a pinecone stuck up there."

As harsh as the words were, they were softened by the larger man pouring the remainder of the wine from a pitcher into smith's goblet. Even a year ago, Sansa would have been horribly embarrassed by Sandor's language. She had grown accustomed to his hard words and where once she only wanted sweetness and honor, she now expected truth.

"You are welcome here, Ser Gendry," she said, smiling in apology for any offense he may have taken. He thanked her and went back to his meal. Although a sullen look still sat on his face, he seemed to have relaxed and was eating quickly now.

The rest of the meal went by peacefully and soon enough, Sandor was pulling Sansa to her feet. She wished everyone a good day and followed behind her lord as he lead her to their chambers. The door was in sight when Maester Medrick appeared from a side corridor. "My lord, my lady. I believe I have everything sorted. Would you like a report?"

"No!" growled Sandor.

Sansa glanced back to the man already left behind. "Tonight after supper, please! Ser Brynden will be joining us. Thank you!"

Medrick nodded his acceptance and smiled indulgently. "As you say, my lady."

The door slammed shut and Sandor barred it before lifting Sansa in his arms and carrying her to bed. So desperate were they, they didn't bother to undress. Sansa pulled her smallclothes down and off, Sandor unlacing his breeches just enough to free himself. They moaned together as he slid into her. "Oh Sandor," she gasped, clutching him tightly, "Oh gods, I love you."

"And I you," he growled, hissing as she tightened around him, then biting down the on the crook of her neck. She mewled and thrust her hips up to him.

For a short time, all was right with the world.


	16. Chapter 16

**Thank you all for the wonderful and lovely reviews!**

**I hope you're all still enjoying the story. Sorry it's been slow to update, but the next two chapters will be pretty big!**

**And, as always, all recognizable characters and settings belong to George RR Martin.**

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It had only been a few days since they'd been together, yet it felt like months. When they were sated, they simply lay in bed, assuring themselves that the other was real. Far too soon, the call to supper rang and they reluctantly got dressed and made their way to the Great Hall. The meal went quickly and before the sun set, the Cleganes adjourned to the lord's solar along with Maester Medrick and Brynden Tully. Wine was poured and candles lit, then Sansa welcomed them.

"My lords, when I lived here at Winterfell, my parents had the good fortune to have the council of Maester Luwin and Rodrik Cassel. Sadly, both of those men have been taken from us but I am honored to have you in their stead. Thank you both."

They thanked her in turn and the maester began their council with a summation of everything Sandor had brought back and what had been done thereafter. "Fifty head of cattle, one bull; they've been put to pasture while we still have grass left for them. Afterwards, they'll be sheltered in the stockyard inside the curtain wall. Fifty ewes, two rams and unknown lambs; they too are in the pasture, with the exception of the ewes that are still lambing. A small flock of chickens, set to roost in the henhouse. Eight new horses, placed in the stables with the current herd. Eight hounds, all but two of them pups; placed in the kennels. Two hundred barrels each of oats, barley, corn, wheat, and sugar plus one hundred barrels each of pickled fish and apples. Four wagons full of assorted harvest, including pumpkins, potatoes, and onions. Assorted smithy tools, given to Ser Gendry for keeping. Two dozen swords, three dozen longbows and some two thousand arrows, various pieces of mail and armor: all stored appropriately. Timber, placed near prospective sites of restoration. In addition, there were several crates and trunks that were taken upstairs which I did not inventory. I am told the remainder of the guests will be vacating in two days, leaving us with fifty men gifted from Manderly, forty young men and women from the hill tribes, eight elderly tribesmen who begged leave to stay to work with the animals, six men from the village who have pledged their loyalty, the four of us here, Ser Gendry, and twenty-six servants, bringing Winterfell to a total of one hundred and thirty-five inhabitants."

"Oh," Sansa said, her mouth hanging open in wonderment.

"It takes quite a lot to keep a castle," her great-uncle teased kindly.

"Yes, I suppose so," she murmured in amazement. "My lord, surely Lord Cerwyn could not be so generous as this. How did we come by such wealth?"

Sandor snorted and smiled. It had been a damn long time since someone was amazed by him, or at least, by something other than his killing. "It's a short road, but heavily peopled. I bought what I could along the way. May have bought us some good will in the deal, thanks to the Blackfish."

"Yes? Great-uncle, I never asked, how did you come to join us?"

"He saw me at Cerwyn's, knew me for who I was the moment he saw me, of course. Cornered me and demanded to know whether the rumors were true, whether I'd abducted you. 'True enough', I said, but the rumor flying about these days is that I took you shortly after the Battle of the Blackwater."

She smiled sadly. "If only, my lord."

He shrugged. "It's the past, little bird. You'll make no change in it, no matter how hard you try."

They were silent a moment, sharing a look that made the others in the room uncomfortable. There were secrets there, and the quiet was oppressive. Finally, Sandor gave her a wry smile, his scars pulling tightly across his jaw. "Seems the Blackfish has found the waters of the Riverlands too hot for swimming these days, said he'd join us here if he had leave. I figure, with as many enemies as we've got, any ally is welcome. Your kin and a good soldier, reason enough I thought."

Sansa nodded her agreement and graced her great-uncle with a smile. "We are pleased to have you, Ser. You said this morning that you wished to speak with us?"

The old man sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Yes, I did. I am sorry to say that I have no happiness for you, only sad tidings and grim hope. You know that your brother and mother were murdered, along with many Northern men at the Twins, yes? That shit Walder Frey betrayed the ancient guest rite and conspired to have them killed."

"The whole bloody world knows that," Sandor said gruffly.

"I was not present for Edmure's wedding," Brynden continued. "I'd been sent to hold Riverrun. But a handful escaped that slaughter. And from the lips of a man I've never distrusted, I was told about your brother's murder. You expect death and even brutality when you're a soldier. It's an ever-present cloak around you. But the remorseless, sickening story I had of this kingslaying … well, it puts Jaime Lannister in a kinder light. My girl, I want you to know before I start that this may well turn your stomach."

He waited until she nodded for him to continue, noting how Clegane moved from leaning against the sideboard to sit beside his wife. Had the girl been his responsibility, he would not have chosen the match, nor would the girls' parents, he knew that for a certainty. But he could not help but be relieved by it. Sansa had been through enough. Had she fallen in love with a milksop, Winterfell would be lost. The north, even. With Clegane, there was hope.

"Robb was feathered with many arrows before he fell. He was a strong boy, there was no question, and brave. But the arrows didn't kill him. It was a sword to the breast that took him, a sword held by Roose Bolton."

There was one perfect moment of silence so pure and serene, when Sandor growled out a curse and Sansa took a shuddering breath, it was like a glass shattering. Medrick shook his head angrily.

"But it wasn't enough simply to kill the King in the North," Brynden continued, choking back the bile that threatened to fill his mouth. "They slew his wolf next, and sewed its head on in place of Robb's own. They threw Cat's body, naked, into the river."

Sansa sobbed twice, pressing her knuckles to her lips. "Oh gods," she whispered, "Please."

The Blackfish fought to control his own reactions before finishing his report. "While Roose Bolton has been named Warden of the North, Edwyn, I'm told, has been taken to Casterly Rock to live the rest of his life as pampered prisoner, along with his wife, one of the Freys. And your brother's wife, Jeyne Westerling."

"Being a prisoner of the Lannisters is a death sentence, no matter how comfortable the abatoir," Sandor replied tersely.

"Do they know you live?" Medrick asked.

"They do, or at least I presume so. I treated with Jaime Lannister to forfeit Riverrun before making an escape on the river."

Still feeling as though she might vomit, Sansa took a gulp of wine and pressed her hand against her mouth again. Sandor pressed a hand to the back of her neck, massaging absently as he listened.

"I'm sorry, Sansa," her great-uncle said wearily, "there is more."

Without opening her eyes, the girl nodded. Feeling in that moment as though she had a hundred years' worth of grief in her heart and wanting nothing more to go back to the days when all that was expected of her was courtesy and a pleasant smile. But those days were gone and, young though she was, she was a woman grown.

"Clegane, I'm told you had an encounter with Beric Dondarrion, after … " Brynden paused, trying to find a way to explain himself. "After his death."

"Aye. After a few of them, to hear him tell it. Killed him myself, not that it stuck."

Maester Medrick's brow creased in confusion. "My lords, I'm not sure what you mean."

Sandor snorted. "Beric Dondarrion was sent to stop my brother from raping and pillaging the whole of the Riverlands. Good on a horse, good with a sword, but no match for Gregor. He was killed, I can't recall how. Then that pompous, drunken ass Thoros said some prayers, did some magic, and there stood the Lightning Lord, hale and whole. I'm told he met Gregor again and again, was no match. The same with some Lannister soldiers. Maybe others. Every time, Thoros brought him back. They've formed a vigilante group, call themselves The Brotherhood Without Banners. A drunken, dirty rabble living in the forest, any time they happen upon someone they decide needs to answer for a crime, they give him a trial. Outlaws, broken men, desperate fools. They caught me one night, drunk and too hungry to fight them off. I had passed their fucking mummery of a trial until Arya Stark spoke against me. Said I'd killed a friend of hers. Dondarrion determined the actions were mine and mine alone and I took trial by combat. Fucking lunatic has picked up Thoros' penchant for lighting his sword on fire. But tired, hungover, and burned, I killed him; nearly cut him in twain. Thoros brought him back."

"Beric Dondarrion is really and truly dead now," Brynden muttered. "Some time after the Red Wedding, the group found Cat's body on the shore. Whatever sorcery Thoros used to keep Beric alive, he passed on to Cat. But she'd been dead a while. Gendry says he never knew the lady but he's certain she couldn't have been as she is in life. She's renamed herself Lady Stoneheart and under her hand, the Brotherhood have become butchers. Whatever Thoros was able to keep of Beric, all that was left of Cat was her rage."

As Brynden spoke, Sandor's hand had tightened around Sansa's neck. She was in no danger of choking, but it was beginning to hurt. She touched his wrist gently and when he didn't release her, she stroked his hand to ease him.

"Fucking fire priest," Sandor growled. Realizing suddenly that his grip was too tight, he relaxed his hand as best he could. She continued to run her fingers up and down the back of his hand, whether she was trying to calm him or herself, even she wasn't sure.

Medrick had begun to make notes on a spare bit of parchment at hand. "Perhaps the delay in reviving her has caused the change?" he wondered aloud to himself.

"She was the reason Gendry left the Brotherhood. He says she's little more than a wraith given form. She can barely speak, her hair is white as ice, and she means to kill every person who did her wrong."

Sansa shook her head sadly. "Oh, Mother. What will happen to you?"

"That was rather the point, Sansa."

"What would you have her do?" Sandor growled, taking a step closer to the old soldier. "Take on her mother's shade and an army besides? All the while, Lannisters could well be nipping at our toes while Bolton sharpens his knives."

"She is my niece and Sansa's mother," Brynden replied, planting his hands on his waist. "Our words have never been so apt: Family, Duty, Honor."

Cutting through their roars, Sansa's sweet voice chimed in, "Yes, but Winter is Coming."

"What?" Tully asked.

"I never understood the words until now. I wished we had prettier, stronger words; like the Tyrells, 'Growing Strong' or the Arryns' 'As High as Honor'. But now I understand my father's now. Winter is Coming, my lords. The snow will fall and fall and fall, ice will cover everything. If all 135 people in this keep survive, it will be a miracle. With storm clouds at our back, we cannot afford to begin a campaign, no matter the cause. Sometimes we have to let go and hope for the best. In my experience, 'the best' is rarely what happens, but nonetheless, it is all we can do."

No one was happy with her decision, but none could find fault and the meeting ended soon after. The Blackfish planned to start running drills with the soldiers and the young men of the hill tribes, Maester Medrick would see to getting the old men settled in with the animals, Sandor meant to see to the fortifications of the keep and begin working with the dogs he'd brought. The two older men left and Sansa slumped against the table, too tired to cry, too sad not to. She was startled out of her thoughts by Sandor dragging two trunks toward her, leaving them within arms' reach but not opening them. He sat on one, elbows on knees, and watched her, waiting.

After a very long time, she found her voice. "Will it ever stop?"

"No, girl. No matter how much blood is spilled, there will always be something to retaliate for. And if we get peace, there'll be a plague or a famine."

She sighed and rubbed the tears from her eyes. "I want him to die, painfully."

"Bolton?"

"Yes. I want that very much. But if he were here, tied up before me, I still don't think I could take his life. Does that make me weak?"

He shrugged. "Proper ladies weren't meant to be killers. You weren't raised to it."

"My father always said that the man who passes the sentence should carry it out. I used to pretend that I didn't know what he meant, didn't know he meant to kill them. But he took my brothers with him sometimes, when he had to act as the King's justice, and when they came back, I couldn't pretend any more. Still, it seemed right to me, that he faced the men he sentenced: heard their words, judged them, and killed them. I killed the Frey boy, but I didn't mean to, and my blood was hot with fear. I couldn't stand before someone and calmly kill them in cool blood."

"You'll never have to," he promised. "Any killing needs done, you've got me. You may surprise yourself, one day. Your sister's a killer, and her years younger than you. Lot fucking shorter, too."

Sansa laughed feebly. "Do you know, I don't think anyone would be surprised? She was impossible."

"She better come back or our blacksmith might die of a broken heart."

"Really?"

"Oh aye. The little shit pines for her something awful."

She thought about it for a moment and then grinned, albeit wearily. "Do you know what this means?"

"That Stark women have fucking terrible taste in men?" he smirked.

"As you say, my lord," she agreed playfully. "No, I think King Robert might have been brilliant."

He snorted. "No more brilliant than any stag in season. Butting heads and mounting any doe that walks by."

"When the King Robert came to Winterfell, he said his son would marry my father's daughter and thereby, unite our houses. Of course, he meant for Joffrey to marry me. But should Arya return, and should she return Ser Gendry's affection …"

"That's fucking unsettling. And one 'maybe, perhaps' does not make him brilliant."

"One of his predictions has already come true," she smiled enigmatically.

"Yeah?"

"When the queen commanded that Lady be killed in Nymeria's place, my father tried to stop it. King Robert wouldn't listen. But as he walked away, he said, "Get her a dog, Ned, she'll be happier for it." And though I miss Lady, I am indeed much happier with THIS dog in my bed."

He laughed, then, hard enough that he nearly stopped breathing. It had been years, maybe decades even, since he'd laughed so hard. His mirth was infectious and soon Sansa was giggling too. Without warning, he pulled her from her seat and into his lap, wrapping her in his big arms. She breathed in the scent of him and held him tighter. When they were both able to breathe again, he clenched her against him and moved to her vacated chair. "Got some pretties for you," he said, shyly. "Didn't know what you like or want. One of Cerwyn's women did most of the choosing."

"My lord, how sweet!" she cooed.

In the larger trunks were bolts of fabric, close to a hundred of them. There were heavy wools and light silks ranging from the dark grey of Winterfell's stones to a light peach; embroidery thread and needles of all sizes and shapes; stockings and slippers, a beautiful bed gown of grey and pink. Tucked deep into one corner among odds and ends was a small wooden box. Within was a small envelope full of an herb she didn't recognize.

"It's saffron," he muttered. "I know you like fineries and sewing. That's used as a dye, makes a deep yellow."

To her amazement, she realized he was blushing. "When we were wedded … it can't have been what you wanted, what you dreamed of as a girl. My mother kept her bride's cloak, hung it up. I'm told other ladies do the same. Didn't put my cloak on you that day, but you know it's yours all the same. Anyway, you still had my old Kingsguard cloak. Thought you could dye it Clegane colors. If you want. Foolish idea."

She placed the box back in the chest carefully before turning back to him, using one hand to sweep the hair from his eyes and the other to stroke his neck. "That is the most wonderful, romantic thing I've ever heard," she whispered, kissing him sweetly. "I was not disappointed in our wedding, my love, I swear it. But I would love to hang a bride's cloak! It's perfect."

He accepted her praise, although his blush deepened. "The other trunk's got some books, some other little things."

"Thank you, Sandor."

"You're welcome, Sansa."

Together, they climbed into bed and spoke a little more of what they'd done, what they'd learned. Sansa could not clear her mind of the image of Robb's body with Grey Wind's head sewn on and wept, nearly retching. Sandor held her, as he had before, and as he would again. To his surprise, he found that he too had tears running down his face. He'd not known Robb, nor Catelyn, but he knew betrayal and he knew loss. Although it seemed absurd, he felt as though Sansa was cradling him as much as he did her, despite their height difference.

He lay awake long after she fell asleep, discomforting himself by allowing himself the knowledge that Sansa could be taken from him. Finally, he settled down and began to dream up new and creative ways to kill Roose Bolton, and soon, he slept.


	17. Chapter 17

Two nights later, the Lord and Lady Clegane brought a small feast to the middle of the Winter Town and fed everyone who cared to come out. They found the residents sympathetic to the danger and eager to join them. To Sandor's delight, Ser Gendry was the one consigned to give the speech. He rigged together a crude bell as a warning system and helped set it up in the square, demonstrating the resonant sound. The village was well-armed and seemed confident in their abilities and the party left for home feeling slightly more secure.

They returned late, well after nightfall, and Sansa left her husband behind to discuss with her great-uncle the plans for the first ranging and finalize the details. She smiled to herself as she walked up the many stairs to their chambers, pleased that Sandor was settling into his role as a lord. For two years she heard him growl that he was not a knight, not a lord, and curse any who were. Given his upbringing and the scant details he'd told her of his early years with the Lannisters, it was hardly surprising. For all his whinging about giving a speech and his declarations against living as anything other than a faithful dog, he had taken on his new responsibility like a suit of armor. He was bored senseless by the tedium of a lord's life, but luckily, Sansa and Maester Medrick were fully capable of handling them, leaving him free to work with his dogs, to work with Gendry and the Blackfish in preparation for winter, and to remain as dour and threatening as he wanted. He was used to people fearing him and the old habits died hard. The men and women of Winterfell had learned quickly to give their lord his space and to respond quickly when he bellowed for someone. All in all, he was easy to work with, unless you had been pitted against him in the training yard. Yet even when he raised welts, drew blood, and on one memorable occasion, concussed a young man, they were content. There was a certain pride amongst the men, too. Not only did they have the well-known and talented Blackfish as their commander, their lord was none other than The Hound. The young clan men were fascinated by the stories the older men told of the Hound's prowess on a battlefield and with every tale, they grew prouder and more desperate to live up to his example.

Sansa sighed with relief when she reached her room, rubbing her hands over her belly. She knew her moon blood was coming and was thankful it hadn't started until she'd finished her duties at the town, but she grumbled to herself nonetheless as she prepared for bed. By the time Sandor arrived, her cramps were worse and she had curled herself into a ball in the center of the bed. She woke as he moved her, wrapping himself around her body, moving his warm hands to her lower belly. "Are you ill?" he asked quietly. "Should I get Bessa?"

"It's not so bad right now. Your hands feel nice."

He grumbled indecisively for a moment but settled himself and pulled her closer. "I told Tully I'd lead the ranging tomorrow. He's going to keep the rest of the men here to practice a changing of the guards and all that shit. I shouldn't go if you're not better on the morrow."

"No, you can go," she assured him. "It will pass, eventually. We need the men to be ready now."

"I could send the blacksmith."

"Out for ranging or up here to me?" she teased wearily. He growled a warning but she could feel him chuckle.

After a few moments of weighing the issue, he consented but assured her that he would have Bessa come check on her after he'd left. She mumbled a thanks, already dozing.

Sleep alluded him a while yet, and he lay in bed trying to remember if he'd ever known a women at her time. He seemed to remember Cersei screaming something about it at one point, but with her, one could never tell if she was pitching a fit about something that was happening at the moment or a month ago. Lysa Arryn, of course, but she had lost a babe, it seemed, nearly every other month, and all he heard were whispers and stories. His own mother was a distant, well-worn memory. When he ran out of avenues to explore, he gave up, remembering that Bessa had said every woman was different. He turned his mind then, to thinking up ever possible misstep he could make, every possible disaster that could befall them. They had worked hard, every person in the keep, to make themselves as ready as possible. And Robert Baratheon once said something he'd never forgotten: "You don't want everything to go right. You need one or two fuck-ups to keep you sharp and ready." Well, that was inevitable. No matter how well men planned, the gods had something different in mind.

He drifted off to sleep watching as lonely snowflakes began to fall outside the window. It seemed like only moments later that he woke, just before dawn. He slid out of bed carefully, trying not to disturb Sansa. A glance out the window told him that the flakes he'd seen hadn't been so solitary as might be hoped, but the snow was only a light blanket on the ground. It could have been worse. He dressed warmly, nonetheless, and pressed a hand against the warm stones of the wall. It seemed to him as though they were living inside a heart, with the pulsing flow of the hot springs through the walls. If Winterfell was a heart, it must mean that the Red Keep was the guts of Westeros, or so it amused him to think. Twists, turns, and full of shit.

Sansa barely stirred when he kissed her goodbye, telling her that he'd be back as soon as he could. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and he made his way to the training yards. A small group of men stood in the early morning snow, all in a line. Each had their weapons and a small pack of provisions. Each was inspected and none found wanting. Sandor rewarded them with a gruff, "So you haven't managed to fuck up gathering a picnic," and led them through the Hunter's Gate.

The dawn threw rays of grey light across the lord's chambers, one of which was slowly making its way up Sansa's sleeping form and toward her face. It had been a night of terrible dreams, as frequently happened when she was on her moon blood. That night, she'd dreamt she was being stabbed, over and over again, by a man whose face kept changing: Joffrey's smug and furious face seethed over her only to be replaced by Grand Maester Pycelle, and again by her brother Robb. The world changed around her and she whimpered in her sleep. She dreamt she was a maiden in a tower and when a handsome knight came to rescue her, he was dead, maggots crawling through the flesh of his face and flies buzzing in his mouth, giving him a horrible voice. Her last dream was the worst: she was being beaten by Meryn Trant and Boros Blount, but their fists were as heavy as stone and as sharp as daggers. They punched and slapped and pinched and shook her viciously, laughing when she fell to the floor, cursing her when she stood up again. One last punch hit her hard in the chest and with a blink, she was at the Eyrie again. The kingsguard were nowhere to be seen but her dress was still a ruin, her blood seeping out slowly. She sat in the middle of her snow castle, underneath the weirwood tree, and watched her blood spread out across the grounds, through the gate, and to the snow castle itself. Then, from nowhere, Petyr appeared, trying to hold her face steady. "Kiss me, Alayne, don't you want to be a good daughter?" he demanded, pulling her hair and twisting her face.

"No! I'm not Alayne! I'm Sansa and I'm not here, I left. Sandor came for me. He took me."

Petyr laughed at her. "Who did? The Hound? That sorry bastard died beside a river, Alayne. No one is coming, no one cares."

She was weak in her dream, unable to fight him off. When he tired of her useless struggles, he placed his knee over her womb and pressed his weight on her. She wanted to scream, wanted to rip his face to ribbons with her nails, wanted her husband. But there was only the blood and the snow and the pain. Suddenly, the sun hit the snow and she was blinded. Petyr was gone, though the pressure still remained. Now it was Sandor whose face she saw push through the ray of light above her. "You look so beautiful asleep," he told her, stroking the hair from her head. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers and, in her half-waking state, she knew that he was there with her in the bedroom, saving her again.

She blinked sleepily, still desperately sore and in pain, but kissed him back all the same. When he pulled away, she raised a hand to rest on his face and murmured, "I was having a dream, a terrible dream."

"I want to hear all about it."

His voice was odd. Higher than normal. She struggled to bring herself to full wakefulness, rubbing her free hand across her face. It wasn't until her fingers brushed her temple where a scar stood from a particularly vicious beating that she realized her mistake.

Her hand rested on his face yet, but there were no scars under her palm. Only smooth skin and the stubble of a weak beard. She gasped, her eyes flying open.

Sitting beside her on the bed, his colorless eyes staring coldly at her, was Ramsay Bolton.

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Author's Note:

Thank you everyone for reading! And thank you for all the lovely reviews! It's incredibly rewarding to see that you're enjoying it. There were two points brought up in the comments that I thought I'd address.

* In re: Roose Bolton's position as Warden of the North - the title was given to him by the Lannisters and he is currently surrounded by Northmen who only nominally support the royals at this time. It's respected only slightly more than the official grant of Harrenhal to Baelish. Also, he was meant to keep the Dreadfort as his base, not Winterfell. He's a calculating man and with his power endangered (both through his distrust of the other families and Ramsay's behavior), it seems to me he'd fall back to regroup.

* In re: the characters being a bit OOC - although there are some departures or stretches, I've tried to stay true to their basic characteristics. In addition, Sansa is still a teenager, a time when one's personality is still in flux. The Elder Brother seems to think that Sandor has changed after leaving the Kingsguard; there have been many times that a single change brought someone to life or at least changed their perception of the world (e.g. a new job, a relationship, etc). We've also not seen either of them for some time now, and not seen them together for even longer. So I have tried to keep them close to their basics while letting them grow and change. I hope you feel the same. :)

Thanks again, everyone!

- the Wench


	18. Chapter 18

Apologies for the delay in updating!

Please note: this chapter contains possible triggers in the form of emotional abuse, physical abuse, violence, language, and other assorted issues. As ever, all recognizable characters, environs, situations, et al are property of GRRM, only the post-canon elements are mine.

Thank you for your continued reviews, follows, and faves! I am pleased and thankful for each and every!

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Sandor was pleased at the success of their first ranging. Days before, he and Tully had outlined a route that would take the men around the outskirts of the keep and then proceed further into the woods, circling back around the town and stopping at the Hunter's Gate. When he arrived at the stables, the men were attentive and alert, an admirable feat in the predawn gloom and sickly blanket of snow. They stopped once when they found fresh tracks in the snow. The tracks were horse tracks, of that there was no doubt, but the creature was unshod and so the party continued on, keeping an eye out for a wild horse.

The last hour of their trip, Sandor allowed them to do some hunting, provided they could carry back whatever they killed. Three men returned with a brace of rabbits each, and two boys carried the body of a stag between them. They mounted up but soon discovered that the horses wanted nothing to do with a deer carcass still oozing blood. So one of the boys took the reins and led the extra horse while the other carried the carcass across his shoulders. He made it a good long while before giving up and enlisting another boy to help him cart it to present to the town as a gift. "You could have just made someone else carry it to the castle," Sandor told him dismissively.

The boy nodded and used snow to rub the blood from his gloves as best he could. "Aye, milord, could have done. But it was my idea to shoot him. I'd not ask another to shoulder him for me for so long a walk. 'sides, if we mean to rely on the village, seems it ought to be all of us reaching out the hand, not just our betters."

Sandor stared at the boy for a moment and finally asked, "What's your name, boy?"

Disconcerted by the attention, the lad shifted his weight and brushed off his gloves. "Koss, milord."

"It was a kind thing, Koss. Well done."

The boy fairly glowed at his lord's praise, his pride not dampened a bit when Sandor continued, "Now you'll see why knights are mounted on destriers instead of nags. She'll smell the blood on you for the rest of the day. So you either make her bear you even when she's terrified, or you better walk as fast as the rest can gallop."

Sandor took the reins from the young man who'd been holding them and angled the mare alongside Stranger. Koss nodded quickly and moved so that he was in his mount's eyesight but still downwind. She was a good horse and liked her rider, blinking at him dolefully as he moved closer. When she caught the scent of blood, her ears went back and she huffed, trying to squirm away from Sandor's grip. Koss quickly dug in his provisions and produced half an apple he'd been saving for their trip back, pulling his still-bloody glove off to offer it with a clean hand. The bribe worked, calming the mare enough that he was able to mount up, although she was still clearly uneasy. He patted her neck and muttered the soothing nonsense typical of soldiers addressing their horses and with a sigh, she fell back into formation.

Everyone congratulated him, including his lord, who gave a curt nod and muttered, "Good," as he road past.

The ride from the town to the keep was quick enough and the company arrived at the gate tired but proud of their first scouting. When the gate didn't open, one of the men called out. When no one appeared, Sandor bellowed a demand. Finally, one frazzled and bloodied man appeared above. "Who's here?" he called out weakly.

"Who do you fucking think?" Sandor roared.

The sun was starting to set behind them, casting them in shadow. "Milord, my apologies, but I must ask that you declare yourselves. All of you."

Ignoring the request, he replied. "What's happened? Open the fucking gate."

"Milord, please."

Rage and fear waged war within him. "Sandor Clegane," he called up, "Lord of Winterfell."

Each man gave his name in turn, each sounding just as wary as he. So it wasn't a device Blackfish had concocted without telling him then, he thought.

Once the last man declared, the watcher atop the wall called down a command to those below him, never taking his eyes off the group in front of him. The doors creaked open slowly, inch by inch. When Sandor could no longer stand the wait, he urged Stranger forward and wrenched one door further open before pushing through. Still astride the warhorse, he glanced around, looking for Tully or another face he knew. When no one appeared instantly, he bellowed for the Blackfish, for the man atop the wall, for someone to come out and explain what this bloody charade was about.

To his surprise, it was Gendry who appeared from a darkened doorway and trotted over. "What the buggering fuck is happening here?" Sandor demanded.

Gendry's jaw tightened and he wiped his brow with the black of one hand, leaving a streak of soot. "Ramsay Bolton happened."

The big man was off his horse and in the blacksmith's face before Gendry could blink. "Where?! Where the fuck is he? Where's Sansa?"

Gendry backed away three paces and held up his hands. "She's alive, she's alright. Come with me."

As they walked through the training yards, past the first keep, and beyond, Gendry explained. "We think he came in when your party returned home last night. We've been preparing for an army or at least a patrol group, no one thought to watch for three men alone."

"And?!"

"I don't know. I don't know what happened. I was fletching arrows when I heard screams. I went running, found three of our men on the ground bleeding, the Blackfish standing over them against a big man, nearly as big as you. Tully fought hard but he lost his footing in the slush and the man knocked him out, would have killed him. I got there just in time. All I had was a fletching knife, but I caught him across the back of the knee and then cut his throat when he fell."

"One of Bolton's men?" Sandor pressed, his patience wearing thin.

"Yes. He caused enough trouble we didn't even know Bolton was here at first. The other had blocked the rest of the men into their barracks, Medrick caught him about to set the wood afire."

Sandor's jaw tensed and his gorge rose. "And what did our kind maester do when he found him?"

"Broke his neck with his bare hands."

They were walking through a part of the keep he wasn't very familiar with and he growled in frustration. "And Bolton?"

"That's where we're going," Gendry said.

They were stalking through the halls at a good pace but Sandor was getting more anxious by the moment.

"Here," Gendry said, pushing open a heavy oak door.

Inside, laying wrapped in furs, was Sansa. She was asleep, or at least that was what he begged of every god he'd ever heard known in that moment. He pulled off his greaves and gauntlets and slid clumsily to her side. Her chest rose and fell as he watched and he nearly wept in gratitude, brushing her face with his hand, careful of a bruise forming on her cheek and a split lip. Her eyes fluttered but she remained asleep, though she shifted, pushing herself closer to him. He was torn then, between waking her or letting her rest and demanding more answers from the blacksmith.

"Clegane," came a weary voice and he searched to find its owner. The Blackfish was lying a few feet away, also swathed in furs. His injuries were considerably worse. There was a nasty lump on his head, dried blood still streaked down the side of his face and his arm in a sling across his chest. "It's alright, she'll be alright."

"What happened?" Sandor murmured as quietly as he could. "We were only gone a day."

"Bastard snuck in, maybe last night. Waited 'til you and the men were gone. Set his man to kill as many as he could, at least create a distraction. He went after Sansa."

"Are you sure it was only the three of them?" he growled.

"The men are searching," Tully assured him. "Searched twice. Only those three."

"Gods. Gods damn it. Where's that little fuck now?"

The older man smiled wearily and looked over to the far side of the room. There, in the near darkness, was Ramsay Bolton. He was chained to the floor by his ankles and to the wall by his neck, contorted into an uncomfortable reclining state to lie on the rough stones. There was a bloody bandage across the man's middle, one arm immobilized against his chest with a hideous bruise blooming on his shoulder. He was gagged with an old rag and blindfolded with another. One of his shoes was missing and his toes on the exposed foot were black with frostbite. He looked underfed.

Before he could ask yet again what had happened, he felt Sansa stir beneath his hands. "Sandor?" she whispered, blinking up at him.

"It's me, little bird, it's alright."

She clutched at him and he leaned down, letting her run her hands over his face and through his hair. "He was there," she whispered. "I thought you had come back. But it was him."

He held her tightly against him, trying hard to hear her over the blood pounding in his head. "I'm here, I'm here. What did that fuck do to you?"

The words came slowly for her, tired beyond reckoning and sick. She drifted off a time or two and someone else continued the story until she woke again.

_Earlier that morning …_

"You look so beautiful asleep," Ramsay murmured, running her hair through his fingers. He'd never seen a woman with hair so fiery red. It had been so easy to simply walk into Winterfell and wait until her hairy savage was gone, he almost couldn't believe his luck.

She touched his face, stroking his cheek, making him shiver. "I was having a dream, a terrible dream."

"I want to hear all about it." She was so soft, so sweet-smelling. There was nothing like a new toy.

Suddenly, her eyes flew open and she gasped, wrenching her hand from his face. "No!" she whimpered, covering her breasts with one arm and scrambling for something beside the bed with the other. This was one of his favorite parts, that first moment of realization, her eyes wide and her panic a bitter perfume. Usually they ran, it was strange to see her nearly motionless. He smiled at her, running a hand up one leg and squeezing her knee, just a little too hard. She hissed through her teeth and turned quickly, freeing her weirwood blade from its sheath and slashing at him. He jerked away and her blade only grazed his chin. He tutted in disappointment, seizing her wrist and wrenching away the knife.

"Now, now, Lady Clegane. Hardly hospitable," he scolded. When she didn't answer him, he reached forward and pinched the side of her breast. She moaned and wrapped her other arm around herself. "My apologies, my lord," she murmured.

"You are forgiven," he said magnanimously. "Now, as breathtaking as you are lying here naked, I'm afraid it's time to go. Get up, get dressed. If you run or try to hurt me, I'll punish you."

She squeezed her eyes shut and groaned quietly. "I know we've only been friends for a few minutes, Sansa, so I'm going to forgive your disobedience. But you only get one more chance. Get up."

"I can't," she muttered through clenched teeth.

Without a word, he struck her across the face, watching in fascination as her copper hair flew in an arc. "Can't?" he demanded, his voice eerily calm.

"I can't move," she spat back, pressing a hand to her mouth where he'd struck her. He expected her to weep, to wail, to call for help. Hoping she would. Yet she seemed unmoved. "I'm having my moonblood. It cripples me. I cannot walk, I can't even stand."

He gave her a tight-lipped look. "Moonblood?"

She nodded, waiting.

After a long moment, he cleared his throat. "Men injured on the battlefield walk miles to a healer," he said at last. "You can walk to the stables."

"It's not the same," she murmured through clenched teeth, her face contorting as she waited for a wave of pain to pass. "My belly cramps, my muscles are weak. It makes me ill."

"You look able enough," he said tersely. When she didn't respond, he grabbed her bedding and yanked it off her, exposing her entirely. The raggedy sheet she'd placed beneath her hips before going to bed was stained, her thighs streaked with blood fresh and old.

"Bleeding like a slaughtered horse. You're disgusting. Filthy little whore, aren't you? Do you bleed so much because you have a dog fucking you every night?"

The mask she had held in place for so long stood firm and she didn't flinch from him. "It is the curse of all women, my lord. I have no control over this."

He slapped her belly with an open hand, hard. She shrieked and pulled her knees up to protect herself. "The blood means you're not with child, isn't that it?"

A nod was enough to satisfy him this time and he sat thinking for a moment longer. "Does your Hound mount you even while you bleed? My girls don't mind a bit of blood when they mate."

His questions seemed to be genuine curiosity. "No, the pain is too great," she told him cautiously.

He considered that for a moment, then smiled again. "I considered taking you while I watched you sleep. Well, I wouldn't want anyone to think that I can't control myself where a hound could. I'll tell you what, I'll help you get dressed and I'll carry you out of the castle. In return, you won't make a sound. If you do, I'll break a few of your teeth. Now, I think that's a fair bargain. Don't you?"

What choice had she? He dropped a dress over her head, yanking her arms through, and pinching her cruelly whenever her movements slowed. She made an attempt to stand and found that her legs would only bear her for a few steps before she needed to brace herself on the wall. Frustrated with her progress, he slapped her across the face harder than he had before and picked her up over his shoulder. It was an awkward arrangement as she had a good two inches of height on him and he was underfed and injured, but he was strong and he was crazy. She moaned at the sharp pressure of his shoulder against her abdomen but he dug his nails into the flesh of her thigh and she quieted.

Whichever path he took from her chambers to the gates, it would be a long one. She kept hoping to see Sandor at every corner, or her uncle, or anyone. She wished she had the strength to fight him. She was powerless; again. After what felt like hours, he made a disgusted noise and shook her. "I can feel you bleeding on me, you filthy slut. You're ruining my shirt. Ah well, once we're home, Father will give me another. He'll have tailors make me a whole wardrobe. Not you, though. I'm going to let you keep that lovely frock, however bloody it gets. All my life I heard stories how honorable and noble the Starks were. But you're just a stupid, useless little cunt, aren't you?"

His voice was an acid whisper, cruel and cutting, yet she did not respond. He considered swinging her head into the wall, but a live Stark was more valuable than a dead one. So he kept moving, through a short hallway, down a long corridor, and finally, he approached the large staircase that would lead him down to the first level. Before he could take the first step, Sansa squirmed in his arms until she managed to jab a knee into his jaw. He dropped her and she cried out as she landed on the stone floor, but kept kicking, unable to stand, unwilling to be taken without a fight. His fists pummeled her belly and thighs before her foot connected solidly with his flesh. She could feel a sickening crunch as his shoulder popped from its socket. Mustering the strength she had left, she gave one final push. He toppled down the staircase, rolling and pitching. His body came to rest halfway down the stairs, crumpled on a small landing. For a moment, she thought she had killed him and released a deep, shaky breath. Before she even finished the thought, he pushed himself to his feet and started back up the stairs to her.

With his good arm, he reached out and grabbed her ankle, pulling her toward him. She shrieked in frustration and fear, flailing her arms out to find purchase along the smooth stone of the floor. He hurled insults at her, threats and promises as she fought him, scooting closer to the edge of the stairs with every passing moment. The fear coursing through her was the only thing keeping her from fainting and even so, her strength was waning. Throwing herself wildly to one side, her hands made contact with the stone feet of Bran the Builder, one of the few statues in the upper levels of Winterfell. Resting against his hip was an ancient sword. Even while she stretched and scratched trying to reach it, the thought occurred to her that this statue shouldn't have a sword, only those in the crypts did. Finally, her fingers brushed the blade, only to have it shatter. He laughed at her, cruel and mad. So amused was he that he didn't notice the last half foot of the sword was intact and, with one smooth motion, she swept it off the floor and into Ramsay's belly. More shocked than injured, he dropped her ankle and stared at the steel sticking out of his flesh. Before he could do anything more, men swarmed into the corridor, quickly subduing the injured man and hauling him away.

Sansa wanted to weep. She wanted to wail and scream. But she was too tired to do any more than lay there, waiting. Bessa knelt beside her, murmuring worriedly over Sansa's injuries. Medrick had been sent to the cells to care for Bolton. Knowing her lady needed more attention than she could give, Bessa asked one of the young men to carry Sansa to the dungeons. "The dungeons?" Sansa asked, unsure whether somehow Bolton had succeeded in his siege.

"Can't let Bolton escape and Medrick can't be in two places at once. We're going to take everyone that's been injured there, it's alright," Bessa told her as they walked briskly through the castle.

Her belly clenched and her stomach roiled. She tried to warn the man carrying her but couldn't get the words out in time, only just managing to vomit away from him. "I'm sorry," she moaned, knowing she couldn't possibly have managed to avoid him altogether. "I'm sorry," she said again, squeezing the boy's shoulder.

"Don't fret yourself, milady," he soothed. "It won't hurt me none."

The next thing she knew, they were at the dungeons, a small, dark room in the belly of the keep. Across the room, as far from the door as he could be, lay Ramsay. He was chained already but kept up a constant stream of curses and threats until Bessa could stand it no longer and gagged him. When his malevolent gaze wouldn't stop trailing her, she blindfolded him as well. Medrick finished stitching the wound Sansa had inflicted and with the help of the young maid, popped Ramsay's shoulder back into place. Instead of screaming or groaning as most do when a dislocation is corrected, Ramsay began to laugh through his gag, gurgling madly. Sansa was next, her injuries fairly easy to treat. Bessa sat with her while the maester moved to check on Tully, cleaning her face and neck with a damp rag. She brewed tea and heated stones, doing everything she could to ease Sansa's pain. When her charge finally drifted into a deep sleep, she set to cleaning the bodies of the three guards who had been killed by Ramsay's men. She cried silently as she ran the rag over a young boy's face, cleaning off the mud and blood and dirt. Next was one of Manderly's former men and finally, one of the old men who'd set himself to working with the horses. She took a moment longer to pray over them, dried her eyes, and turned to find Brynden Tully watching her.

"Thank you, girl," he murmured, trying for a smile but ending up grimacing.

"Milord?"

"It's a rare thing, to have a pretty woman attend your corpse. Rarer still for her to weep while she washes off the muck and closes your eyes. They lost their lives defending their home and each other and that's honorable enough, but it is expected. When someone weeps over them, it makes them men again, not just soldiers."

She blushed and smiled shyly, astonished with herself for the tingling sensation she felt at his words. "I don't know what else to do for them," she confessed. "I've helped to heal the sick, never sent off the dead before."

Tully nodded encouragingly, regretting it when his head throbbed. "The two Flint men kept the old gods, they'd want short pyres and a burial of their bones. Fysher was southron. We don't have a septon to read over him but we can manage some of the ceremony."

He'd closed his eyes as he spoke and so was surprised at the cool touch of a damp cloth on his forehead. "Are you feeling ill?" she asked quietly.

"No, lass. It's a bump is all, not so bad as that."

She gave him a disbelieving look but smiled nonetheless and changed the cool compress once more before she went to check on Sansa again. Watching her walk away was almost reward enough for the injury and he drifted off to sleep with impious thoughts, a smile across his face.

Sandor listened as patiently as he could to what had happened, his hands skimming over his wife's prone body, feeling her ribs for breaks, rubbing salve into her split lip, massaging the cradle of her hips gently. Once the tale was told, he grunted angrily and sat working things over in his head. After some time, he called the maester to him and gave him four messages to be sent immediately. Gendry was next: he was to stand as captain for the men until Tully recovered. He was given instructions to tell the men exactly what had happened and to send men back for the bodies of the fallen. Medrick returned when the ravens had been sent, trailed by servants bearing meals for the injured and the attendants. When a young girl made to carry a bowl of broth to Bolton, Sandor growled, "Leave him. He'll eat only when I say he can. Make sure the others understand."

She bobbed a curtsey and left quickly. Eating his own meal quickly, carried Sansa to her own bed and turned her care over to Bessa. Tully he left alone to sleep in the dungeon. The old man had lived through worse conditions and unlike his great-niece, he was still in need of the maester's care. With only the two sleeping men, two guards, and Sandor, the cells were quieter, yet no less foreboding. Walking over to the madman chained to the wall, Sandor pulled the blindfold from his eyes with a vicious tug. Ramsay's eyes shot open, his colorless eyes focused intently in an instant. There was no fear in his gaze, not even hate. It was an unnatural, unreadable look, one most people shied away from. Most people had never met anyone truly evil.

"You know me?" the Hound asked, his voice low and deceptively calm.

Ramsay managed to smirk around the cloth in his mouth. Nodding in acknowledgment, Sandor swung his fist and hit him hard across the temple. "Good."

A bruise blossomed quickly but Bolton's eyes returned to him, unblinking, unaffected. "There are many sins a man can commit and it seems to me that most of them come as natural to you as breathing," he continued.

Bolton gave him an incredulous look and Sandor smirked in return. "I never said I was a stranger to them. I've killed; men, women, and children alike. I've whored and thieved and more besides. Though I have to admit, I've never flayed anyone."

His captive grinned around the gag. "I've never broken a man," Sandor continued. "Not the way you have. It's impressive, I suppose. Seems like an awful lot of effort, though."

With that, he began what he'd been restraining himself from doing since the moment he crossed the threshold. He rained down punches on Ramsay's face and abdomen, kicked his ribs, and slammed the young man against the wall. When he felt a little better, he stopped. Ramsay had grunted and groaned a bit during his beating, but never called out and wasn't crying or wailing. "I don't find torture as fascinating as you," Sandor told him, "You don't deserve it, but I think your death will be quick."

He stood, watching as Bolton scooted himself into a more comfortable position. "And no matter what I do to you, you can count yourself lucky it wasn't the real Arya Stark you married and forced to bed."

He meant to leave, he knew that if he stayed he'd kill the man. But Ramsay's muffled words caught his attention. He turned back, examining the man in front of him. "Can't understand a fucking word and I don't care to. Think I heard the word 'father' in there, though."

Ramsay smirked again and Sandor stepped closer. "Actually, your father IS looking for you," he confided. "He's sent mercenaries out after you. You outlived your purpose. But we'll let him know where you are."

He stepped hard on Ramsay's frostbitten foot, earning the first shriek he'd heard from the man. The blood in his veins still boiling, he walked the entirety of Winterfell, examining every wall, every window. All of the men were accounted for with no one unknown inside the walls. As he made his way back through the yard toward the keep, he found Gendry idly sharpening a pile of swords. "Did you talk to him?" the blacksmith asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Yes."

"Did you beat the shit out of him?"

"Yes."

"Good. What did you say?"

He shrugged. "That he'd be dead soon enough. That he'd best not hold out hope for his father to save him. That he ought to count himself lucky that it wasn't the real Arya Stark he forced a few months back."

Gendry grinned and laughed a moment. "That's for true. I'd feel better if she were here. For as much trouble as she brought, she always seemed to find a way out."

"Aye, as would I, oddly enough. Then again, might be she's grown some tits and washed a few miles of dirt of her. That wouldn't break your heart none, either?"

He chuckled as Gendry managed to blush and try for outrage at the same time, who laughed along when he failed. Theirs was an unlikely friendship but it was beginning to grow and secretly, they were both glad of it.


	19. Chapter 19

Maester Medrick sat in a cushioned chair in his study, the last rays of sunlight filtered through the patched window across his lap. He was at a crossroads, or rather, his lord was and so therefore was he. Ramsay Bolton was a difficulty, there were no two ways about it. When he'd been captured and contained, the maester had patched him up and walked away. He wouldn't have placed a bet on Bolton living through the night, not for fear of his wounds putrifying, but for Clegane's anger. When he returned the next morning, he was surprised to find the young man alive, although there were fresh wounds to be tended and the gash in his belly to rebandage. Although he knew it was the wiser course, he found himself disappointed that the Hound had not thrashed the life out of this putrescent little creature. When he broached the subject a few days later, Clegane scowled and said, "I very nearly did. Should have, maybe. Ramsay may be an evil shit, but he's a mad dog. The man holding the leash is the one who killed my lady's brother, betrayed his sworn king. That man … I'm going to rip his throat out."

There had been no response yet from the ravens he sent, although that was hardly surprising. The snows had started again and there was a good two feet blanketing the world as far as the eye could see. He'd guess that the birds had found their destinations by now, if only just barely. Three letters were sent, each with the same information, yet a different message. One of the birds had been sent to King Stannis, informing him of the capture and Sandor's oath to see the matter settled 'by Bolton's death.'. The second was sent to Roose Bolton himself with a full description of Ramsay's actions and a notice that he was being held for one month before his execution, adding that if the Warden of the North wished to do the honors himself, he was welcome to return. The third was sent to an aging prostitute living in the outskirts of King's Landing. When Medrick inquired why in the seven hells an old whore was getting this news, Clegane smiled. It was an odd thing, when their lord smiled. Many of the men and the servants had noticed that when he frowned or raged, he was terrifying yet when he smiled, it was somehow more frightening. "She'll hold the letter," he said, "until Lord Varys comes to hear her news."

"Varys? The Spider? I'd heard rumors he was dead."

"Many have said the same of me," Sandor pointed out. "Yet here I sit."

"I'm sorry, my lord, I don't understand. You are certain that Lord Varys is alive and convinced he is able and likely to come see this woman, and surer yet that she will give him your letter. And if so, what will come of it?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps nothing. But if Varys is alive, and I'll bet he is, he'll want to know what goes on here."

"But he's on the small council, or was. An advisor to the king."

"Yes, and the king before that, and the king before that, back to Aerys. I nearly killed him one night, took him for a thief or a rapist coming out from behind a tapestry. He played along for a moment before I recognized him. Pissed him off, me seeing through his mummery. But he is the kind who knows things and if doesn't know, he will soon. Secrets are the air he breathes. I think that of all the people in this godsforsaken country, it is Varys who cares most about Westeros. I think he'll be rather pleased to know I've caught a monster."

"Do you happen to mention in your letter that you yourself are not a monster?" Medrick asked pointedly.

"Aren't I?" Sandor snorted. "It's Varys. He'll have the truth of the Saltpans."

The maester thought over the conversation again and again in the following days. He felt instinctively that corresponding with anyone connected with the Lannister court was probably a mistake but if Clegane knew Lord Varys as well as he said he did, there was sense behind the message.

So focused was he that he jumped when a young girl knocked on his door. "Pardons, maester, but this'n says he needs to see you."

Behind her stood one of the men he'd stationed in the Winter Town, a tall and gangly young man named Tybbett. In his hand, he clutched a torn piece of parchment, which he offered to Medrick nervously. "My brother sent this, milord. 'e keeps an eye out for travelers as what's comin' this way down through the forest."

Medrick took the parchment and unfurled it, squinting to make out the barely legible message. All he could make out was "…and a huge woman, bringing them to Winterfell". The first section had been ripped or gnawed away and the first word was indecipherable, although he thought he could see 'ayer' at the end, maybe even 'layer'. He sighed. The Flayer.

"Why is your brother escorting Roose Bolton to Winterfell?" Medrick asked.

"Can't say, milord, 's why I thought you needed it quick smart."

The maester nodded and sat back in his chair. "Surely Bolton known the road from the Dreadfort to Winterfell without guidance. Or perhaps he wasn't at the Dreadfort. Where else would he have gone?" he murmured to himself.

"Beg pardon, but my brother lives down in the Riverlands," Tybbett interrupted.

"The Riverlands?" Medrick asked, astonished. "Curious. Perhaps Bolton has gone to the Freys. Do you know when they might arrive?"

Tybbett shook his head. "The paper came in a sack of oats he sent me. The traveler who brung it says he left a week ago at a good pace. My guess, could be any day now they get here."

"Gods. Thank you, Tybbett," he said, digging in a drawer. He found two coppers and offered them to the man. "For you and your brother," he said. "My thanks, and House Clegane's as well."

The youth took one of the coins and left the other. "I'll give this 'un to my brother, but I'm here honorable, milord."

Medrick thought for a moment, then dropped the copper back into the drawer, pulling out instead a small jar with a brick of honeycomb stuck inside. "Then have this as a gift, lad. Honor is to be rewarded."

Tybbett looked as though he'd like to refuse it but the sight of the honey was too tempting. "My thanks, an' I'll keep watch in the town."

After seeing him out, Medrick made his way through the castle, asking that the Blackfish and Gendry be brought to Lord Sandor's solar, then headed there himself, pleased to find his lord and lady already present. He had never met the Hound before coming to Winterfell, but everyone had heard stories. When he had worked for hours to ensure Ramsay Bolton would live, only to have Clegane beat the man so badly that he spent another several hours stabilizing him again, he was only surprised that he was healing and not preparing for a burial. That being said, the man had been given several broken bones, a shattered cheekbone, bruises, and a ruptured eardrum. All this he expected. Clegane had not been given a blank slate to work with and had seemingly targeted every injury Ramsay had sustained: a frostbitten foot had been crushed, the wound in his belly from Sansa's blade had been pressed, his tender shoulder slammed into the wall. Ramsay Bolton was known for his torture. Sandor Clegane for his ruthless brutality. Even those who knew the stories of his might were perhaps a little shocked at his fury. In all his battles, he had fought because he must. He didn't hate the men in front of him, they'd done him no personal wrong. Never before had he truly punished someone.

His ferocity did not surprise Medrick, however. He had seen too much of violent men and of desperate actions to ever find brutality shocking. However, he never would have guessed from those tales how completely and utterly devoted the man would be to a wife. When he entered the room, Clegane sat in a wide, cushioned chair with Sansa perched on his lap and curled against his chest. One of his hands stroked her hair while the other held her hip, although they both looked as though they might have been napping before he interrupted.

"My pardons, my lord, my lady. I have news. I've asked Ser Brynden and Ser Gendry to join us."

Sandor grumbled an acknowledgment and guided Sansa off his lap and onto the minimal amount of cushion not occupied by his wide form. Once she was settled, she rested her head on his shoulder.

"Lady Sansa, are you alright?" Medrick asked gently. "Do you need anything?"

She smiled tightly. "No, thank you. Just a little weary and out of sorts."

Nodding, he remembered she ought to be finishing up her monthly cycle. He smiled at her sympathetically and called for tea. While many men swore by ale or wine, Medrick had always found tea to be the very thing to clear out one's body and soul. It arrived shortly before the two knights and Medrick poured a cup for everyone, hoping it would prove as bracing for them as it did for him.

Once everyone had gathered, he repeated Tybbett's information and passed the missive around the table. "A huge woman?" Brynden Tully snorted. "Aye, Fat Walda certainly is that."

"Why would he ride unaccompanied with his wife through the Riverlands to reach us at Winterfell?" Gendry asked, his brow creasing in the insolent, impatient way that reminded Sandor once again of whose child the young man was.

"He could have been betrayed by the Freys," Medrick offered. "Or it could be a ruse."

Tully snorted. "The Freys are rotten little worms but they're not foolish enough to betray Bolton and yet let him escape."

"His wife is a Frey," Sansa offered. "Maybe they let her go and she warned Lord Bolton in time."

"So either it's a ruse and he's got an army following on his heels" Sandor said, tapping his knuckles against the table absently, "or he's met with misfortune and hopes to find sanctuary here. In which case, he'll have a new plot by the time he crosses the threshold."

Medrick pulled a piece of parchment from his sleeve and consulted the notes he'd made. "We have a fortnight yet until Ramsay's appointed execution."

"What do we do if he shows up and asks for shelter?" Sansa asked.

"Point him toward town. There's an inn. As much as I'd like to gut him on sight, I'll not offer him our bread and salt," Sandor responded fiercely. "I may well kill the man and I'll shed no tears over it, but not while he's under our protection. We have enemies enough without offering cause for more."

"And if he's followed by an army?" Gendry pressed.

"If it's his, we'll feather him. If not, we'll let them have him," Brynden offered.

"And if he's come to claim his son?" Sansa asked quietly. "We offered him the chance."

"He can be the one to swing the sword on his bastard," Sandor growled. "And then I'll do the same for him."

They parted soon after, Tully to see to the men and battlements, Gendry to the armory, and Medrick to check on their prisoner. Sansa followed her great-uncle to the practice yard, trailing after him patiently until he was done with his preparations. "Yes?" he asked, his gaze intent and curious.

She smiled shyly. "I would like you to teach me how to use a bow and arrow."

Giving her an incredulous look, he snorted. "You're married to one of the most feared warriors in the history of Westeros. Can he not teach you?"

"He dislikes archers," she grinned. "He thinks they are cowardly."

Brynden laughed. "Aye, he would. Does he know you think to learn?"

"I have learned that it is best to keep no secrets from Sandor. He tends to jump to the wrong conclusion when he realizes I've not told him something. As to archery, he dislikes the idea of me in battle but after all this," she gestured to the curtain wall, "he has agreed that it might behoove us all for me to know a weapon other than a dagger."

Together they made their way to the archer's yard. Running his hands over the bows on the wall, Brynden selected a small, re-curved bow and handed it to her. Although she was a woman, a lady, and his own niece, he treated her as he would any other soldier. She learned how to string the bow, how to feel the balance of the wood in her hands before she loosed, and learned the different arrowhead types and their purposes. Once he felt she had a good understanding of the weapon, he let her try her hand. She let three arrows fly, none of them hitting the dummy. She stopped and took a deep breath, feeling the string and the wood in her hands and staring up at her target. For years, Sansa had watched her brothers and even Arya practice this, standing right where she stood now. She pulled the string back to her ear, remembering Robb's laugh and Jon's gentle guidance, Bran's determination and Arya's confidence. Without conscious thought, she loosed another arrow. This one flew straight and true, and hit the practice dummy in the chest.

Surprised, Brynden patted her shoulder. "That was well done."

Sansa smiled her thanks and tried again, this time hitting a shoulder, the next, a hip. Each time her fingers released the string, she remembered someone she loved. This arrow was for Rickon's smile, that one for her mother's arms.

When she curled up against Sandor later that night and told him of her exercise, he laughed gently. "I watched you, little bird. Looks like I named you true. You made them fly."

She was pleased that he'd watched, even after he'd derided the weapon. Feeling silly to be telling such a thing to her warrior, she even explained what went through her mind as she shot and how it improved her aim. He laughed again and hugged her tightly to him. "Your sister did much the same," he told her. "But where you fight for love, she fought for hate. Every night she made a list of everyone she intended to kill and I'll be damned if she didn't get around to at least a few of them."

"I suppose that's better," Sansa murmured, sad that her baby sister had turned so harsh and embarrassed that she couldn't be as strong. "To fight with anger."

Sandor sighed and rubbed her back. "No, little bird. It was what fueled her. It's what has fucking driven me since I was eleven years old. But you have a good heart. We should wish to fight as you do."

She was unconvinced, but comforted all the same. It was a hard world they lived in; even the gentlest among them must be ready to fight.


	20. Chapter 20

For the next three days, every man, woman, and child was strung tight with nervous energy. The night Tybbett brought the letter to Winterfell, every member of the household was called to the dining hall. Sansa explained the looming threat and its possible outcomes. She told them of Bolton's betrayal. The longer she spoke, the more riled her people became. She told them with confidence that she had begun to take archery lessons because she was ready to fight to defend their home. When she finished, there was one perfect moment of silence before every person in the room cheered. It was not unheard of to admire your lord and lady, to be proud of them. Most often, there was a grudging respect for the nobles who controlled your fate. Only a few in all the history of Westeros had made their people truly love them. As the Cleganes stood before the assembled host, Medrick was thankful once again that Barbrey Dustin had seen fit to recommend him. Sandor, burned and scarred, was still tall and strong and fearsome, his eyes glinting and his huge hand wrapped tightly around his lady's waist. Sansa was tall too, certainly taller than most of the women at Winterfell, but hers was a willowy, graceful height; her copper hair fell in waves to the small of her back and her chin was raised high and strong.

The maester was not a very religious man, but looking at the assembled nobles, he understood why people had embraced the new gods. Where once Sansa had been the very picture of the Maiden, she had slowly transformed into the Mother. Still young and in many ways still innocent, she had taken the mantle of Winterfell's lady and it suited her well; her love and kindness was felt in the halls every day. He was uncertain if Sandor Clegane kept to the new gods, or any gods, but had anyone heard the stories of the vicious Hound, they could not have failed to identify him as the Warrior made flesh. But love had tempered him like cool water on a forged blade, strengthened him in ways he may not yet know. He stood before his people as a pillar of strength, immovable, unreadable, as stern as any statue of the Father ever had been. The Blackfish was their watcher, the leader of their men. He stood behind Sansa with a sword on his hip, his eyes constantly surveying the room, a consummate Warrior. Gendry stood behind Sandor, soot smudging his brow and his massive arms. The real and true Smith. Medrick smiled wryly as he thought to himself, "Mayhaps that makes me the Crone?"

Although he thought she might be pleased by the comparison, Medrick decided not to tell Lady Sansa of his thoughts. One could never tell where the line of blasphemy lay for another. Tully, though, he would be amused. The Maester made a mental note to tell him later.

And so for three days, all of Winterfell stood in readiness, ready for a fight. It was almost a relief when the eerie, sharp tones of a bell rang across the dell to the castle. Every soldier was at attention in moments, every child escorted into one of the hidden rooms, and every eye on the horizon. It was midafternoon and the sun was behind them, giving an unimpeded view. Sandor had his armor on quicker than could be believed, years of practice making him fast. Sansa wore a dove grey dress and an old silver breastplate that Gendry had found in their stores. Together, they stood atop the curtain wall, protected by the outer wall and a deep moat. Tully was with his men below, ready, waiting. Not knowing what else to do with himself, Medrick had chosen to stay with Gendry. The wounded could be placed nearby and still protected, unless the inner wall was breached. "At least my bell works," Gendry muttered, handing out swords, shields, and various pieces of armor to the small folk.

They waited.

Finally, one of the young clansmen gave a whoop and pointed across the field. Two riders approached, their pace deliberate yet not hurried. Sandor's hand flexed on his sword hilt, waiting.

There was not a single person who could say they were not surprised or even shocked when the riders' faces were visible: not Bolton and his wife, but Jaime Lannister and a huge woman in mail and armor. Blinking in confusion, Sandor gently pushed Sansa behind him. "It's the Lion," he murmured to her. "Stay back."

"Do you think he's come for me?" she whispered. "Or you?"

"I'd lay some pretty good fucking odds on you," he muttered. "Stay back, now."

She nodded and slid back into the shadow of the keep's walls, her eyes never leaving the approaching riders. Once they were within shouting distance, Sandor bellowed out, "That's close enough, Lannister."

Jaime's eyes scanned the castle wall until they found him. "Clegane? So it really is you! I'd heard you were dead."

He snorted. "I heard the same. Funny, isn't it?"

Lannister's grin widened. "Isn't it, though? Allow me to introduce my companion, Brienne of Tarth."

"I know who she is."

Jaime glanced at Brienne who shook her head slightly. "Obviously her reputation precedes her," he called up. When Sandor didn't respond, Jaime shrugged and smiled again.

"I've heard another rumor about you."

Sandor barked out a laugh. "Many, I suspect."

"Oh yes, the Mad Dog of the Saltpans. Lady Brienne tells me someone has stolen your helm and is tarnishing your good name. But then again, I hear that you've taken a certain young lady hostage. Not your style, I thought, but I'm told it's true and that you might treat with me for her release if I came alone."

With the sun behind him, Clegane's face was unreadable. "Is that so? Name the lady and I'll see if I have her tucked away."

"Sansa Stark."

"Why would I have Sansa Stark?"

Jaime made a wide sweep of his hand. "Winterfell might be reason enough."

"If that were so, why would I release her?"

"For a pardon," Jaime offered. "For a reward. Your brother is dead, Clegane Keep is yours by rights, or would be if you weren't an enemy of the state."

"Gregor is dead?" Sandor called back, his voice tight and brittle.

"Yes. Killed by Oberyn Martell in single combat."

"Horseshit."

"The Mountain won the combat, but Martell's spear was poisoned. He died soon after. Well, not really 'soon' after. Days after. It was an excruciating thing, I'm told."

Sandor was torn. Part of him wanted to exult that his brother had died a long and painful death, the other part furious that it had been another's hand to take his life. "And why would Gregor have fought Martell?"

Jaime sighed and took a drink from a waterskin. "Clegane, this is really quite tiring. Perhaps if you allowed us in, we could talk about this over some dinner, in front of a fire."

"Not fucking likely!"

"Alright, but my voice may give out at any time."

"I've never yet seen a lion lose its roar."

Jaime smiled and bowed slightly. "It was a trial by combat. Gregor was Cersei's champion, Martell was Tyrion's."

"Family argument get out of control?"

"Cersei believed, as many did, that Tyrion was responsible for King Joffrey's death."

"The gods too, it would seem."

Jaime gritted his teeth. "So it would seem. Tyrion swore that he was innocent, as was Sansa."

"And that is why you seek her? Do you intend to try her as well?"

"No. I swore to find her and return her to her family."

"Swore to who? And if you hadn't noticed, between the Lannisters and the Ironborn, the girl would seem to have no family left."

Jaime cursed impatiently. "Clegane, I was told you were holding the girl and that you would kill her unless I came. Here I am."

"That message never passed my lips," he answered. "With Varys gone, I guess you can't trust the whispers anymore."

Brienne stared ahead. She knew Jaime was looking at her but she couldn't meet his eyes.

Finally, Jaime turned back. "Do you have her? Tell me that, at least."

Sandor thought for a moment, considered everything Jaime had said, and made a decision. "Yes, I have her."

Jaime sighed in relief yet the woman beside him seemed to have gone even more tense. "I have her," Sandor repeated. "And I mean to fucking keep her. Pretty little thing, isn't she? Sweet, too."

Now it was Jaime whose voice was tight. "I never took you for a rapist, Sandor Clegane."

"Maybe she just likes my pretty face," he called back, laughing.

"Let us see her," Brienne called, startling her companion. "Prove to us that you have her and she is well, and we will treat with you."

"I say again, I have no interest in treating for her release."

Despite his words, he gestured for Sansa to join him. She moved slowly, letting him lead in the mummery. He grinned at her ploy and yanked her to him, not quite hard enough to hurt her, and clutched her to his chest.

"Here she is!" he called, rubbing a hand down her back to grab her ass and squeeze it.

She could see the woman below fuming and the Kingslayer's jaw was tight, yet his voice remained airy. "Sansa Stark! Or should I say: Sansa Lannister. Congratulations, good-sister, on your nuptials. I am sorry to report that your husband has flown, I know not where."

Making her voice as gentle as she could, she called out, "Welcome to Winterfell, my lord, my lady."

"Did you truly come alone?" Sandor asked.

"Yes," Jaime said. "Do you see an army?"

"I've learned not to underestimate a Lannister."

Jaime had the good grace to look a little sheepish at that, but made no comment. Sandor nodded and called down, "A moment. I'll see if I can't find a familiar face to greet you."

Once they were out of their visitors' sight, Sansa hugged him tightly. "Do you believe him?" she whispered as they hurried down the battlements.

He snorted. "I do. If he were his father or even Cersei, I wouldn't believe it for a fucking minute. Every pebble would have soldiers hiding beneath it. But Jaime was always rash."

They reached the bottom of the inner wall to find the Blackfish waiting for them. "Did that idiot really come all the way out here alone?" he muttered. "Tywin is rolling in his damn grave."

"Let them in. Take their arms and store them, feed and water their horses. Give them a place to refresh themselves and show them to our rooms in an hour. Gendry and Medrick, too."

"Are they guests or prisoners?" Tully asked with a wry smile.

"I haven't decided yet," Sandor grinned in reply.

"Have Lady Brienne's belongings taken to my old room and Ser Jaime's to Robb's," Sansa told a servant. "And please have supper for seven of us sent up to our solar in an hour."

Preparations made, they excused themselves and went to their rooms to prepare. Sandor supposed he might have stayed down to oversee their welcome but if they wanted to talk to him, they'd do it on his terms. Tully would be more than capable of handling the two of them, he knew. Sansa asked him to help her remove her breastplate, eager to be out of it. Her husband was in favor of removing everything she wore and presented a debauched and disheveled woman when their guests arrived. Although she would very much like to be debauched, Sansa dissuaded him. "I must be presented in a position of power," she reminded him. After promising a night of wanton disregard following their talk, she was able to convince him.

And so, an hour later, they were joined by their council and their guests. Tully lead in the visitors, his sword at his hip. The table in their solar was large enough to seat all of them, two to a side, and was laden with greens, mutton stew, potatoes with cream and butter, and a haunch of venison, a better meal than either Jaime or Brienne had eaten in a very long time. The very sight of the food was enough to distract them for a moment before they looked up to see Sandor and Sansa sitting together at the head of the table.

Jaime stopped short of the table and gave a stiff bow. "Clegane. Sister."

Sansa didn't correct him, but smiled sweetly at him. When he lifted his head, his forehead creased instantly. The injuries Ramsay had given her were still healing, hints of her split lip and a bruised cheekbone caught his attention and held it. The guests sat when told to and were shortly joined by Medrick and Gendry.

"You," Brienne murmured when she saw the blacksmith. "You saved my life!"

He nodded, staring openly at the pink scar tissue on the side of her face. "Not quickly enough, it would seem," he said, his tone not quite an apology.

"Thank you," she murmured, suddenly shy.

Gendry turned to Sandor. "The man who stole your helm was the one as did that, my lord. Nasty piece of work."

Jaime's eyes flicked to Gendry at the honorific used, but made no comment. He reached forward to lift his wineglass. At Sansa's gasp, his head jerked to look at her, instantly on alert.

"Ser Jaime," she cooed sympathetically. "What has happened to your hand?"

"Removed forcibly," he replied, trying for a congenial tone. "Had a bit of a run-in with a rabid goat."

"Vargo?" Gendry growled.

"That's the one."

"I am sorry for your loss," Sansa said after a quiet moment. "I saw you joust at my father's tourney. Your victory over Barristan Selmy was quite enthralling."

Sandor snorted. "Do you recall, Lady Sansa, that Ser Jaime was unhorsed shortly thereafter?"

"Yes, my lord," she smiled, "and that too, was quite thrilling."

"Forgive me," Medrick interrupted gently. "I think I may have missed something. Why were you searching for Lady Sansa? And what had you planned to do when you found her?"

"I was held captive by the Stark army for over a year," Jaime began. "Lady Catelyn Stark freed me when the northmen bayed for my blood with the condition that I send her daughters back home to her. When I reached King's Landing, I found neither girl in residence. Sansa, I was told, was party to King Joffrey's murder and had disappeared the night of his wedding. Arya Stark seems to have disappeared quite a bit earlier."

Sandor laughed at that. "Aye, the little wolf has slipped through your hands more times than you know. She was held by my brother, by your father, and by Roose Bolton. None of them knew her."

Jaime gave a good-natured scowl. "Do you happen to know where she is?"

"It happens I do not," he replied. "Across the sea, would be my bet."

Jaime exchanged a look with Brienne, then turned to Sansa. "My lady, I swore to return you to your family. As Clegane pointed out, I'm afraid this promise no longer holds the succor it might have done. It seems to me you have found your closest kin already."

The look he gave Tully was not quite one of respect, but nor was it one of contempt. "Perhaps you are content to stay here with your great-uncle. If not, I will do anything that is within my power to take you where you wish to go."

"Where would you have me go?" she asked. "Back to your sister's claws? Back to Baelish, to be a pawn?"

"Wheresoever you wish," he told her, feeling suddenly self-conscious. He was trying to fulfill the oath he'd sworn but it seemed now to be an entirely useless promise.

Sansa considered him for a moment. "I would prefer to be with my husband."

Jaime sniffed and tapped his flesh fingers against his golden wrist. "That may be quite difficult, my lady. I do not know where my brother is, nor even if he lives."

"You misunderstand me," she said, reveling in the feeling of power created in this moment. "I have had my marriage to Tyrion annulled. I am no longer Sansa Lannister. I am Sansa Clegane."

Her pronouncement had the desired effect: Jaime's mouth hung open, his eyes glazed in confusion. Brienne's forehead creased and she shifted in her chair nervously.

Jaime's fingers flexed and released a few times while he tried to find the words he needed. "You have annulled your marriage to The Imp," he repeated, watching her face for confirmation, "and chosen instead to marry The Hound? This was your will?"

She smiled serenely and nodded, offering her hand to her husband. To say the look on his face was not a smirk would be a lie. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles as he had seen countless knights do at tourneys, squeezing her fingers gently.

"Our guide failed to mention this when he offered to lead us to The Hound," Jaime grumbled.

"Might I ask who it was that advised you to travel alone to treat with Lord Clegane?" Medrick asked.

Jaime turned slowly to look at Brienne. Her breathing was shallow and her chin quivered as though she might cry.

"Lady Brienne?" his voice was cool and dangerous, like newly formed ice.

"I'm sorry, Jaime," she whispered, the blood draining from her face.

It was Gendry who finally answered the unasked question. "Lady Stoneheart."

Brienne nodded and looked to Jaime with tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said again.

"Who the fuck is Lady Stoneheart?" Sandor growled, leaning forward on his elbows.

Tully cleared his throat. "If you recall, my lord, what I told you of Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr …"

"My mother?" whispered Sansa.

Brienne shook her head. "No, my lady. It is not the Lady Catelyn, only rage given form. She would not know you, or if she did, she would not love you."

She told them then of her capture by the Brotherhood and her trial, Podrick beside her with his neck about to snap.

"I swore I would bring you to her, to answer for your crimes," Brienne murmured. "And that I would return with you, to answer for mine. If we did so, she swore to let Podrick go."

Jaime sat in silence, glaring down at his golden hand and thinking. "I'm sorry," Brienne told him again. She moved to touch him but stayed her hand, letting it settle back in her lap. "Podrick was innocent. We both made an oath and we both failed her in keeping it."

After a long time, Jaime nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose we did."

To his surprise, it was Sansa who spoke. "Don't go as a lamb to the slaughter," she said sorrowfully. "If you are to be tried, let it be so. And kill her."

"My lady?" whispered Brienne.

"As you say, that is not my mother. Perhaps in his own way, Ser Beric was doing good. Lady Stoneheart is not. If you feel you should answer for your crimes, let yourself be tried. But not by her."

"And if I killed her?" Jaime asked. "What would you have me do then?"

"Take care of Tommen," she replied instantly. "He's young and sweet. Don't let him be destroyed by the queen or the Tyrells."

The room fell silent as Jaime considered. Finally, he nodded.

"What will you tell the Queen of this?" Tully asked, arching an eyebrow. "How can you explain letting four enemies of the crown escape you?"

"My sister is in no position to protest," he admitted. "The last news I had of her was that she had been imprisoned by the High Septon and was going to be tried for crimes against the crown."

"Oh," Sansa whispered, unable or unwilling to express anything more than surprise at this news.

"Cersei rots away in a cell and you trek in the opposite direction on the rumor of Sansa Stark's danger," Sandor summarized, leaning forward on the table and locking eyes with Jaime. "Time was you would have torn across the entire bloody country if she had a hangnail."

It was a challenge, all of them knew it. "Yes," Jaime said simply. "Those days are gone. My sister will have to worry about her own affairs for a time."

They sat in silence for a moment, letting his confession resonate. It was Tully who broke the quiet. "Suppose we should tell you we've bent the knee to Stannis," he sniffed.

"Why in the heavens would you do that?" Jaime asked amiably.

"Why has anyone, anywhere, ever bent the knee?" Sandor growled. "Because there's a man with an army and he tells you to."

"But Stannis?" Jaime looked pained. "Clegane, you've known him. Do you want that man for your king?"

He sneered. "You know better than anyone that it's not a fucking matter of wanting it. He held the North, Bolton held Winterfell. I couldn't very well lay siege to the whole fucking countryside by myself, a sword in one hand and my cock in the other. Manderly helped us but the price was to bend the knee to his chosen king."

"If we were truly loyal, we'd chain the pair of you up and give you to Stannis for his name day." Tully grinned, laughing when their faces paled. "No need to fret yourselves, we're not so loyal as that."

"Besides, you've partaken of our bread and salt," Sansa pointed out with a sad smile. "You are now under the protection of House Clegane."

Jaime sighed and smiled at her. "And for that, you have my thanks. And forgive me, my lady, but chivalry and decency demand that I ask: are you happy here? Well-treated by your husband?"

"Yes, quite," she assured him, confused.

"I know Clegane will excuse the slight," Jaime continued, nodding slightly to the giant sitting across from him. "We neither of us were ever known for our patience, nor our … tractable nature. Our restraint. What happens behind closed doors is not mine nor anyone's to inquire, but when I see the evidence of a beating, I must ask."

Sansa quite expected her husband to fly into a rage at the accusation but he seemed no more than annoyed. "I've never raised a hand to her," he growled.

"Oh! My lip!" she cried suddenly, smiling as she raised her fingers to brush against the healing split. "Thank you ser, for asking. Your gentility is very sweet. This was not Sandor, it was Ramsay Bolton."

"Bolton?" muttered Brienne.

"Ramsay Snow," Jaime clarified. "His legitimacy proclaimed by King Tommen as a reward for Bolton's assistance in the unsavory matter of the Freys. You don't mean to say you've had a run in with him, my lady? You're certain it was him?"

"Quite certain."

"He's chained up in the cellar if you want to admire him," Sandor growled, earning laughs from his men.

"Why?" Brienne asked, uncertain she was understanding.

Tully sat forward and pushed a platter of cakes over to her. "Because he's a festering tumor on the world of man. We plan to lance him."

"A lance might work, but I'd recommend a sword," Gendry piped in, sending them into gales of laughter again.

Brienne cautiously took one of the cakes the Blackfish was still shaking at her. "What has he done?"

"Rape, murder, pillage, torture, abduction, mutilation …" Tully listed them off on his fingers. "Most recently, he married a girl he swore to be Arya Stark, although she wasn't, of course. She escaped with the help of Theon Greyjoy and he went after her. When he came back, he slipped through our guard and ended up killing two of my men before pulling Lady Sansa from her bed and doing his damndest to get her out of the castle."

"Our security measures have been redoubled," Medrick offered, wishing Tully hadn't confessed their failure.

Tully continued on as though he hadn't been interrupted. "She fought, he beat her. She got some of her own back, enough to delay him until help arrived. Once Lord Clegane crossed the threshold, he repaid the injuries several times over. My lord wrote to Roose Bolton, offering him the honor of killing the lickspittle. If hasn't come to claim him, we'll be shortening him in a week's time."

"How badly did you beat him?" Jaime asked Sandor.

He shrugged. "Badly enough. Not so much as I'd have liked to."

"The beating was quite severe," Medrick offered. "But my current concerns are the belly wound Lady Sansa inflicted and a foot afflicted with frostbite. He's lost two toes already."

Jaime glanced down at his golden hand and made a moue, lifting his wine to his lips. "I suppose I should feel sympathetic."

"YOU got off easy," Tully rasped, "You lost your sword hand, it's true. But it's said Theon Greyjoy lost his damn cock!"

The wine spewed from Jaime's mouth and nose as lurched over the table, choking. Worriedly, Brienne clapped him gently on the back and offered him her napkin, which he accepted. "What do you mean, he lost his cock?" he demanded.

"Ramsay is quite fond of torture," Medrick responded. "Once physically tormenting Greyjoy became dull, he set to breaking his spirit. Once that lost its succor, he castrated the man."

Sansa, accustomed as she was to both the vulgar language and the subject matter, still fidgeted unhappily. "I grew up with Theon," she reminded them gently, "We never got along but he was a friend to my brothers. I would not have wished this on him, even after his betrayal. He isn't Theon anymore. He's been broken entirely."

"Shit," Jaime swore. "I shall count my blessings with more vigor."

"You should know, we've written to Stannis as well. We've not heard back, but he could well be on his way to deal with the boy," Medrick advised.

"Stannis doesn't concern me. Though if we're being honest and open, I have something I ought to confess as well. I've given leave for Bonifer Hasty to kill you on sight, Clegane. Some dirty little fellow called Raff as well. At the time, I was under the impression that you truly were the monster of the Saltpans."

Sandor snorted and even smiled good-naturedly. "Bonifer Hasty? That holy little shit?"

"Baelor Butthole," Jaime chortled in agreement. "He seemed certain he was up to the task. The other fellow said he'd have to be mad to stand against you."

"Mad or no, he'd not stand for long!"

The whole company laughed then, the tension breaking for the first time that evening. It had been a long and tiring day for all involved and soon, they made their way to bed. It was the first time either of the two visitors had slept in a bed for a very long time, making it a luxurious but uneasy night. They both awoke some time later to the sound of impassioned lovemaking. Brienne pulled the covers over her head, trying to convince herself that the sound of Sansa's voice crying out in ecstasy was proof that she was truly where she wished to be. Jaime, meanwhile, simply lay back and listened to the lord and lady of Winterfell's exertions. He had been surprised when they were given room assignments usually reserved for family or high-ranking servants but upon hearing how clearly the sounds carried, he understood. The next morning at breakfast, Gendry asked if he felt quite alright, so uneasy was his look. When the elder knight explained that some nightly noises had disturbed his slumber, Gendry grinned mischievously. "It's warmer in that part of the castle," he smirked, "but the outer rooms are much more restful."


End file.
